Piddle

Piddle was a tiny lad,
In a land far away,
Of weeping willows tall and sad.
Of stories gone astray.

On a rainy day,
By the river bedding
He found a fair girl.
They held a quiet wedding.

Nuny was her name.
Her face solemn but sweet.
Her eyes painted with shame,
Though rightful she was indeed.

She tidied Piddle’s little room,
Like a good wife’s ought to do.
Steady in her hands was her broom.
Cleaning was all she knew.

And one day she thought,
In her simple mind;
That her work she did not.
That dirt she left behind.

In shame and pure despair,
Nuny ran away.
Piddle missed his lady so fair.
And so he said: ”Nay!”

“I will not let my lovely lady go,
I will follow her, over land and sea.
I will put on my shoes, my boat I’ll row.
Travel I will, until my lady is again with me.

Little did the fellow know,
That his girl was close by.
Piddle, surprisingly, saw his lady.
From his mouth came a cry:

“Nuny, my love, where have you been.
I missed you for while.”
“I was ashamed of myself.”
She said, with a saddened smile.

Then she told the tale,
Of her life in the little room.
Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning and cleaning.
In her hands steady her broom.

Piddle said: ”Sorry for my dumbness,
I’ve been a stupid lad.
To the woods I’ll take you with me now.
May you never again be sad.”

And so the room got dirty,
they never went back.
Just, Piddle, Nuny, the river and the woods.
They never went back.