There may be no language as quirky and irregular as English, nor any language whose words can have such varied meanings and whose letters can be pronounced in such a multitude of ways. That’s the premise behind this old poem I stumbled upon in an old anthology. It is titled, rather unimaginatively, “The English Language.” It’s a good and fun one to read aloud. A pretty deer is dear to me,A hare with downy hair:I love a hart with all my heart,But barely bear a bear.‘Tis plain that no one takes a planeTo have a pair of pears;A rake, though, often takes a rakeTo tare away the tares.All rays raise thyme, time razes all;And through the whole, hole wears.A writ, in writing “right,” may writeIt “wright,” and still be wrong—For “write” and “rite” are neither “right,”And don’t to wright belong.Beer often brings a bier to man,Coughing a coffin brings.And too much ale will make us ail,As well as other things.The person lies who says he liesWhen he is but reclining;And, when consumptive folks decline,They all decline declining.A quail don’t quail before a storm—A bough will bow before it;We cannot rein the rain at all—No earthly powers reign o’er it.The dyer dyes awhile, then dies;To dye he’s always trying,Until upon his dying-bedHe thinks no more of dyeing.A son of Mars mars many a sun;All deys must have their days.And every knight should pray each nightTo Him who weighs his ways.‘Tis meet that man should mete out meatTo feed misfortune’s son;The fair should fare on love alone,Else … Continue reading The Tail End of our Tale