'Why is it, little chick,' I said
'That you so ragged go?'
'Alas,' he answered, 'father's dead
And mother cannot sew.
'She does her very best to lay,
Till I have learned to crow;
But bread is rising every day,
And eggs, alas, are low.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem