From the moment that those Nine he saw, He never could bear his blue coat more. "Oh, Brothers in misfortune!" he said, "Did you ever see any lobsters so grand, As those who sit down there in the sand? Why were we born at all, since not one of us all was born red?" "Dear Brother, indeed, this is quite a whim." (So his brothers and sisters reasoned with him; And, being exceedingly cultivated, The case with remarkable fairness stated.) "Red is a primary colour, it's true, But so is Blue; And we all of us think, dear Brother, That one is quite as good as the other. A swaggering soldier's a saucy varlet, Though he looks uncommonly well in scarlet. No doubt there's much to be said For a field of poppies of glowing red; For fiery rifts in sunset skies, Roses and blushes and red sunrise; For a glow on the Alps, and the glow of a forge, A foxglove bank in a woodland gorge; Sparks that are struck from red-hot bars, The sun in a mist, and the red star Mars; Flowers of countless shades and shapes, Matadors', judges', and gipsies' capes; The red-haired king who was killed in the wood, Robin Redbreast and little Red Riding Hood; Autumn maple, and winter holly, Red-letter days of wisdom or folly; The scarlet ibis, rose cockatoos, Cardinal's gloves, and Karen's shoes; Coral and rubies, and huntsmen's pink; Red, in short, is splendid, we think. But, then, we don't think there's a pin to choose; If the Guards are handsome, so are the Blues. It's a narrow choice between Sappers and Gunners. You sow blue beans, and rear scarlet runners. Then think of the blue of a mid-day sky, Of the sea, and the hills, and a Scotchman's eye; Of peacock's feathers, forget-me-nots, Worcester china and "jap" tea-pots. The blue that the western sky wears casually, Sapphire, turquoise, and lapis-lazuli. What can look smarter Than the broad blue ribbon of Knights of the Garter? And, if the subject is not too shocking, An intellectual lady's stocking. And who that loves hues Could fail to mention The wonderful blues Of the mountain gentian?" But to all that his brothers and sisters said, He made no reply but--"I wish I were dead! I'm all over blue, and I want to be red." And he moped and pined, and took to his bed. "That little one looks uncommonly sickly, Put him back in the sea, and put him back quickly." The voice that spoke was the voice of Fate, And the lobster was soon in his former state; Where, as of old, he muttered and mumbled, And growled and grumbled: "Oh dear! what shall I do? I want to be red, and I'm all over blue."