Young Kaspar he was kernel-sound,
A fleshy cub and barrel-round;
Had cheeks all rosy-red and fresh,
Was fond of soup – it added flesh.
But finally, with scowling brow,
He said he'd strike, and make a row:
"No swill for me; I'm not a cow,
I will not eat it – loathe it now;
I can't! I won't! I shan't, I vow!"

A day rolled slowly o'er his head –
Behold, his flesh began to shed!
Yet still his strike he did maintain,
And screamed as erst with might and main:
"No swill for me; I'm not a cow,
I will not eat it – loathe it now;
I can't! I won't! I shan't, I vow!"

The third day came – lo, once so sleek,
Observe him now, how thin and weak!
Yet still his flag he feebly flew
And hailed that humble dish anew:
"No swill for me; I'm not a cow,
I will not eat it – loathe it now;
I can't! I won't I shan't, I vow!"

The fourth day came, and here you see
How doth this little busy bee;
He weighed perhaps a half a pound –
Death came and tucked him in the ground.