Mr Nightingale’s Late
By Julian Tuwim
Translated from Polish
Mrs. Nightingale’s neat nest is filled with sob and wail,
Mr. Nightingale’s not home yet, neither beak nor tail.
At nine was the dinner ready and he’s never late,
It is almost midnight now, so where’s my Nightingale?
All is cold, including fly soup with the evening dew,
Six mosquitoes stuffed and smothered with the primrose stew,
Roasted butterfly well seasoned with the shade of trees,
Finally – some moonlight cream-cake, which was made from breeze.
What if something happened to him? Perhaps robbery?
Feathers plucked, pure voice is stolen, what a misery!
Jealous Lark with little fledglings did it, nasty sneer!
Feathers nothing – they will grow back, but the voice is dear…
And there comes old Nightingale, whistling, jumping, glad.
Whereabouts have you been swooping? I’m all tears and mad!
And his chirp reply’s as follows: I’m sorry, my pet,But the evening’s so alluring that I walked instead.