This is the tale of a black hen, and Polly was her name,
Who whined and whinged from early dawn until the evening came
She yearned to be a speckled hen, and oftentimes she cackled:
“Why, oh why, am I so black? And why am I not speckled?”
One day arrived a clever thought: “I have some spots, maybe
It’s just: they happen to be black, impossible to see!”
It was a wonderful idea. And henceforth she professed:
“I am a pitch-black hen, hurrah, covered in pitch-black specks.”
She told the news to everyone amongst the other poultry:
“To have so many nice black specks is really just exultory”
But all the chickens laughed at her, and the old rooster heckled:
“You’re nothing but a plain black hen, and utterly unspeckled.”
How tragic for our dear, black hen! So sad, so sad for Polly!
She sat down with a doleful smile. Then she got melancholy.
She didn’t eat. She didn’t drink. And she laid no more eggs.
She spent her days just snivelling, never went to stretch her legs.
She hadn’t cackled even once for twenty days on end,
She never joined the other hens: you could say she was spent.
And when they cried “Come dine with us, come here and have some wheat,”
She’d mutter: “I’m not hungry, I don’t think I want to eat.”
One summer morning she was found, lying still beside the pen
A very wretched sight indeed, our pitiful black hen.
Then all the hens were crying and the rooster spoke, in tears:
“Our Polly just expired in the full spring of her years.”
And on they went to bury her, they had a long procession
The rooster wore a feathered hat, which made quite an impression.
And when they put her in the grave, he offered this oration:
“Polly, our dear friend, met today her final destination.
So here we’re standing at the grave of our beloved Polly,
I’ve been reliably informed she died of melancholy.
But what that is I do not know, and all that I can say
Is if you have it, you don’t eat, and neither do you lay.
We all hope we won’t get it too, that is the bottom line,
She was the most able of hens and surely the most kind.
I want to add a last remark (although it may sound nuts),
She was a beautiful black hen with beautiful black spots.”
When he had said this he stopped dead, as if by lightning struck,
For Polly jumped out of her grave, and gave a cheerful ‘cluck!’,
She suddenly was quite alive and yelled in buoyant cackles:
“I am indeed a pitch-black hen, and full of pitch-black speckles.
You all admitted it, so now, I am no longer worried.
I really don’t see any need for me to still be buried.”
Most chickens thought the whole affair had been in quite bad taste,
They’d all wept for no reason and that’s always such a waste.
But never mind, they all went home, and everything went fine.
Our Polly laid two eggs that day, a very healthy sign,
She cleared a bucket full of wheat, with hungry, hearty pecks,
She truly was a plain black hen, covered in plain black specks.
She never snivelled after this, never got melancholy,
And that was that, it’s over now, the tale of black hen Polly.
— Annie M.G. Schmidt