Poor Peter was, at six years old,
A martyr to the common cold.
It stopped him going, many a time,
To party or to pantomime,
For when the longed-for morning broke
Poor Peter would begin to croak,
To sneeze and snuffle, cough and sniff
And use his pocket handkerchief
In vain they dosed the wretched child
With physics strong and physics mild;
For though he took them as he should
They did him not the faintest good.
At last his parents in despair
Consulted Doctor Debonnaire.
"Haliver-oil!" the great man cries.
"Yes, that's the cure that I'd advise:
For halibut–I grant it's odd–
Contains more vitamins than cod."
But wayward Peter did not like
The stuff, and straightway went on strike.
He fought and scratched and kicked and swore
And stamped upon the nursery floor.
In vain they coaxed him and cajoled him;
"Open your mouth!" his parents told him:
But Peter kept it firmly shut
Against the oil of halibut.
That night (a trifle feverish
Perhaps) he saw a monstrous fish
Swimming, as though in deep-sea gloom,
About his little moonlit room.
A drooping mouth the creature had;
Its eyes were large and round and sad,
And every time it moved its fins
The air grew thick with vitamins.
"Pray tell me," Peter said (for he
Was tender-hearted as could be),
"What makes you such a tearful fish?
Speak–is there anything you wish?"
"Alas!" the halibut replied,
"I weep because of wounded pride.
In vain for children's sakes I toil–
They do not like my liver oil.
So here I swim, a gloomy ghost
Hated by those I love the most."
"Ah, say not so!" the boy exclaimed.
"You make me bitterly ashamed.
See–I will swallow it with pleasure!"
And down his throat it went full measure.
The halibut, immensely cheered,
Smiled gratefully, then disappeared:
And Peter since that day, I'm told,
Has never had a single cold.