All in the golden afternoon full leisurely we glide
   for both our oars, with little skill, by little arms are plied
   while little hands make vain pretence our wanderings to guide
   ah, cruel three! in such an hour beneath such dreamy wheather
   to beg a tale of breath too weak to stir the tiniest feather
   and what can one poor voice avail against three tongues together
   anon, to sudden silence won, in fancy they persue
   the dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new
   in friendly chat with bird or beast- and half believe it true
   and ever as the story drained the wells of fancy dry and faintly strove that weary one to put the subject by
   the next time. it is next time the happy voices cry
   thus grew the tale of wonderland, thus slowly, one by one
   it's quaint events were hammered out
   and now the tale is done and home we steer
   a merry crew
   beneath the setting sun