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 it 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 plane
To have a pair of pears;
A rake, though, often takes a rake
To tare away the tares.
All rays raise thyme, time razes all;
And through the whole, hole wears.
A writ, in writing “right,” may write
It “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 lies
When he is but reclining;
And, when consumptive folks decline,
They all decline
