Install Steam
login
|
language
简体中文 (Simplified Chinese)
繁體中文 (Traditional Chinese)
日本語 (Japanese)
한국어 (Korean)
ไทย (Thai)
Български (Bulgarian)
Čeština (Czech)
Dansk (Danish)
Deutsch (German)
Español - España (Spanish - Spain)
Español - Latinoamérica (Spanish - Latin America)
Ελληνικά (Greek)
Français (French)
Italiano (Italian)
Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
Magyar (Hungarian)
Nederlands (Dutch)
Norsk (Norwegian)
Polski (Polish)
Português (Portuguese - Portugal)
Português - Brasil (Portuguese - Brazil)
Română (Romanian)
Русский (Russian)
Suomi (Finnish)
Svenska (Swedish)
Türkçe (Turkish)
Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
Українська (Ukrainian)
Report a translation problem
"Alas! Alas! The farm is wide,
And large the barnyard company,
But no one ever looks at me;
There really seems to be no use,
Or praise, or glory, for a goose.
They pet the dog whose bark and bite
Scare tramps by day and thieves by night;
But when I bravely stand on guard,
And drive intruders from the yard,
They laugh at me. The kitten plays,
And all admire her cunning ways;
But when I venture in the room,
To play, in turn, some stick or broom
Soon drives me out. Those birds they call
Canaries cannot sing at all
In my sweet fashion; yet their lay
Is praised—from mine folks turn away.
They prize the horse who pulls the cart;
But when I try to do my part,
And mount the shafts to help him draw,
They whip me off. Last week I saw
Two stupid horses pull a plow,
I watched the work, I learned just how;
Then, with my bill, I did the same
In flower-beds, and got only blame.
It really seems of little use
To try to help—when one's a goose!"