All that morning I ran about the town, seeking her in every quarter; but nowhere was any trace of her to be found. I came back in the afternoon to the seashore near the castle, there to ponder what I had best do next. Trudging along a strip of sand under a bluff beside the sea, I came to a large rock which rose up out of the water at the beach’s edge, and climbing up on it I seated myself on a narrow shelf and bared my head to the breeze. I had sat thus only a moment when I heard a voice from the other side of the rock, a melancholy voice, not loud, as of a young man singing to himself; and it was singing a mournful song, pausing now and then to speak in ordinary tones. I remember the words very well, and they were these. “I dream in my deep-sea cavern Of many a bosky copse, I dream of a cosy tavern And a couple of mutton chops,-- For even the storks have gruel, And even the sheep have corn, But me!--it is too, too cruel! Alas, that I ever was born. (It’s too cruel, that’s what it is. It isn’t right. There’s no justice in it, and I’m sick of it, that’s what I am.) O sorrow too deep to utter! O midnight hour of the soul! If there only were bread and butter, Or something warm in a bowl,-- (I don’t care what. I’m so sick of raw fish, I believe I could even stand stewed rhubarb.) O sea, so ceaselessly sloshing, O emblem of peace and hope!-- But it’s utterly useless for washing, And O! how I yearn for soap. I seek, in my cavern’s enclosure, To talk with the fishes, but they, Maintaining the strictest composure, Have simply nothing to say. Proud heart, you are left unheeded Alone with your grief and your ache, When all that is really needed Is just a mere trifle of cake. (Not fish cake. Not that. Chocolate cake, three layers, with walnuts on top and in between.) Sing on, proud heart, though breaking With every harmonious strain, And physic be not worth the taking For your description of pain, Sing on, though it be not forever, Forever and a day,-- (Not that there’s any sense in adding on a day to forever. It’s long enough, in all conscience, without that. However--) I wish I could sing forever To pass the dull time away; And could I be endlessly clever And make me an endless song, I would sing of my sorrow forever, I would,--were it not so long.” The voice gave a great sigh, and the singing ceased. _“I used to make up little rhymes when I was a girl,” said the Queen, “and very pretty little rhymes they were, too, or at least your grandmother, Dorobel, used to say so. But dear me; I never could remember verses, no matter how hard I tried; never.”_ _“Yes, yes, grandmother,” said Bojohn. “Go on, Solario.”_ _“Now the King was different; he could remember them, but he couldn’t make them up; and I could make them up, but I couldn’t remember them! Tee-hee-hee! Dear, dear! When I think of it!”_