This curious fragment reads thus in modern characters:

'Twas bryllyg, and the slythy toves
Did gyre and gymble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves;
And the mome raths outgrabe.

The meanings of the words are as follows:

Bryllyg (derived from the verb to bryl or broil). `The time of broiling dinner, i.e. the close of the afternoon'.
Slythy (compounded of slimy and lithe). `Smooth and active'.
Tove. A species of Badger. They had smooth white hair, long hind legs, and short horns like a stag. Lived chiefly on cheese.
Gyre. Verb (derived from gyaour or giaour, `a dog') `to scratch like a dog'.
Gymble (whence gimblet) to screw out holes in anything.
Wabe (derived from the verb to swab or soak) `the side of hill' (from its being soaked by the rain).
Mimsy (whence mimserable and miserable) `unhappy'.
Borogove. An extinct kind of Parrot. They had no wings, beaks turned up, and made their nests under sun-dials; lived on veal.
Mome (hence solemome, solemone, and solemn) `grave'.

Rath. A species of land turtle. Head erect, mouth like a shark, the front fore legs curved out so that the animal walked on its knees; smooth green body; lived on swallows and oysters.
Outgrabe -- past tense of the verb to outgribe (it is connected with the old verb to grike or shrike, from which are derived `shriek' and `creak') `squeaked'.

Hence the literal English of the passage is --

`It was evening, and the smooth active badgers were scratching and boring holes in the hill side, all unhappy were the parrots, and the grave turtles squeaked out.'

There were probably sun dials on the top of the hill, and the `borogoves' were afraid that their nests of `raths', which ran out squeaking with fear on hearing the `toves' scratching outside. This is an obscure, but yet deeply-affecting, relic of ancient Poetry.

Croft 1855

SHE'S all my fancy painted him
   (I make no idle boast);
If he or you had lost a limb,
   Which would have suffered most?

He said that you had been to her,
   And seen me here before;
But, in another character,
   She was the same of yore.

There was not one that spoke to us,
   Of all that thronged the street:
So he sadly got into a 'bus,
   And pattered with his feet.

They sent him word I had not gone
   (We know it to be true);
If she should push the matter on,
   What would become of you?

They gave her one, they gave me two,
   They gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
   Though they were mine before.

If I or she should chance to be
   Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
   Exactly as we were.

It seemed to me that you had been
   (Before she had this fit)
An obstacle, that came between
   Him, and ourselves, and it.

Don't let him know she liked them best,
   For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
   Between yourself and me.

(It is always interesting to ascertain the sources from which our great poets obtained their ideas: this motive has dictated the publication of the following: painful as its appearance must be to the admirers