Wombat, Wombat, round and staid,
Sleeping deeply in the shade,
What benighted heart or eye
Could spurn thy sweet absurdity?

In what soporific trance
Dwelt the dimness of thy glance?
Whence emerg’d thy tranquil charm?
What dread storm could rend thy calm?

And what thought could be design’d
To cross the vacuum of thy mind?
When somnolence o’ertakes thy brain
What din could waken thee again?

Who the Goddess? Who the God?
Whose sense of humour odd?
Whose the laughter - through whose charming
Hast thou form, O Beast disarming?

When Her elves and faerie folk
Chortl’d o’er Her gentle joke,
Did She smile Her work to see?
Did She who made the Gods, make thee?

Wombat, Wombat, round and staid,
Sleeping deeply in the shade,
What benighted heart or eye
Could spurn thy sweet absurdity?

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