Didactic poem and Ballad of the Common toad

Toad poem

When March has chased the frost away,
and sun climbs higher every day,
the toad awakes in earthen bed,
and to the rainy night is led.

She moves with patient, measured pace,
through damp and shadowed woodland space.
Three thousand metres she may roam,
to reach her ancient, watery home.

The male, without a swelling throat,
calls softly out his courtship note.
He finds a free and willing bride,
and clasps her firmly, side by side.

She strings her spawn, so clear and long,
near reed-fringed banks where they belong.
He rides her back, intent, aware,
and blesses every pearl laid there.

Fertilisation, sure and plain,
brings forth new life to rise again.
Yet any thief who dares to dine,
will taste the toad’s own bitter brine.

For even tadpoles, black and small,
bear toxins in their bodies all.
Bufotoxins, sharp and strong,
warn fish and newts to move along.

At last, the change is fully done,
the gills are gone, the lungs begun.
The call of land, the air, the sky,
now draws them from the water high.

From shore they march, both bold and shy,
as countless siblings shuffle by.
A tiny army, born again –
this living cloud is Toad Rain.

Toad ballad

When March has chased the frost away,
And sun climbs higher day by day.
The toad awakes in earthen bed,
And to the rainy night is led.

With patient steps through fields and wood,
She treads where damp and shadow stood.
Three thousand metres she may roam
to reach her ancient, watery home.

The male, without a swelling throat,
Calls softly out his courtship note.
He finds a free and willing bride
And clasps her tightly, side by side.

She strings her spawn in silver thread.
Near banks where rush and reed are spread.
He rides her back with steadfast care
And blesses every pearl laid there.

The eggs now hold a hidden spark,
Though danger lurks for those who hark;
For any thief who seeks to dine
Will taste the toad’s own bitter brine.

E’en tadpoles, black and small and shy,
Bear toxins none would dare defy;
Newts, fish, and hunters all refrain –
They know the wrath of Bufotain.

The gills are gone, the lungs take hold,
The tiny hearts beat strong and bold;
From water’s edge they march away
To greet the land, the sun, the day.

A thousand siblings, dark and bright,
Move all at once in morning light;
A living cloud, a small domain –
The world now calls it Toad Rain.