'The Aged Man sitting on a Gate'

'The Aged Man sitting on a Gate', an illustration by JVL for Through the Looking-Glass 

by Lewis Carroll. Artists' Choice Editions, 2011.

The Aged Man sitting on a Gate

'I'll tell thee everything I can; 

There's little to relate.

I saw an aged aged man, 

A-sitting on a gate. 

"Who are you, aged man?" I said, 

"and how is it you live?"

And his answer trickled through my head 

Like water through a sieve.

He said "I look for butterflies 

That sleep among the wheat: 

I make them into mutton-pies, 

And sell them in the street. 

I sell them unto men," he said,

"Who sail on stormy seas; 

And that's the way I get my bread -- 

A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan 

To dye one's whiskers green, 

And always use so large a fan 

That they could not be seen. 

So, having no reply to give 

To what the old man said, I cried, 

"Come, tell me how you live!"

And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale: 

He said "I go my ways, 

And when I find a mountain-rill, 

I set it in ablaze; 

And thence they make a stuff they call

Rolands' Macassar Oil -- 

Yet twopence-halfpenny is all

They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way 

To feed oneself on batter, 

And so go on from day to day 

Getting alittle fatter. 

I shook him well from side to side,

Until his face was blue: 

"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,

"And what it is you do!"

 He said "I hunt for haddocks' eyes 

Among the heather bright, 

And work them into waistcoat-buttons

In the silent night. 

And these I do not sell for gold

Or coin of silvery shine 

But for a copper halfpenny,

And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, 

Or set limed twigs for crabs; 

I sometimes search the grassy knolls

For wheels of Hansom-cabs. 

And that's the way" (he gave a wink) 

"By which I get my wealth -- 

And very gladly will I drink 

Your Honour's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just 

Completed my design 

To keep the Menai bridge from rust 

By boiling it in wine. 

I thanked much for telling me

The way he got his wealth, 

But chiefly for his wish that he

Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put 

My fingers into glue  

Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot 

Into a left-hand shoe, 

Or if I drop upon my toe 

A very heavy weight, 

I weep, for it reminds me so, 

Of that old man I used to know --

Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, 

Whose hair was whiter than the snow, 

Whose face was very like a crow, 

With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, 

Who seemed distracted with his woe,

Who rocked his body to and fro,

And muttered mumblingly and low, 

As if his mouth were full of dough, 

Who snorted like a buffalo -- 

That summer evening, long ago, 

A-sitting on a gate.'