In ancient times we have been told
A goose did lay an egg of gold,
She did produce one every day,
So regular this goose did lay.
But her stupid foolish master
Wanted her to lay them faster,
And he at last the goose did kill,
Gold grist no more came to his mill.
But a strange tale we now unfold,
In California's mines of gold,
There they keep both hens and chickens,
'Mong the gravel scratching pickings.
But hens do find the golden shiner,
Is too heavy for their dinner,
For it they cannot well digest,
As it lies solid in their breast.
Then they are slain and you behold
In their craw the shining gold,
Made up of particles so fine,
The purest gold in all the mine.
Then how happy is the miner,
When he has sweet fowl for dinner,
And he doth find within its craw,
A little golden bonanza.
And in Ontario the hen
Is worthy of the poet's pen,
For she doth well deserve the praise
Bestowed on her for her fine lays.