Classic Poem

Away then! crashing through the wood,
Prancing in a whimsey mood,
To yowl as a she-wolf does at dark
Until th' infuriate watch-dogs bark;
Or bid hushed tales of ghosts go round,
Of warnings heard, but nothing found,
By whistling at the village boor;
Or poke my rogue face round a door
And scare a huffy wife to fits,
Who swears, " 'Tis Pan himself! " or, " It's
That grizzled sailor-man who slew
His mate 'twixt Bogs and Dead Man's Yew! "
Next through the dairy steal to slake
My thirst with cream, with honeycake
Cram my sweet maw; slip in the churn
A farm cat, that the tub may turn
And fright maid Molly. I will seek
Strawberries and stain chin, mouth and cheek
With nuzzling in their scarlet bowl;
Then in the goodman's bed I'll roll
Because he loves me not; I'll sing
Until the crowded rafters ring
The while about my ears I hang
Bobbed cherries. . . . Lastly I will clang
Among the clattering pots and pans,
Shout, cry " Oh help! " snatch up a man's
Cloak, and slip out.
Whoop! Whoop! They run:
The hare once spied, the hunt's begun! —
Goodman and goodman's wife, pert Polly,
Clown Colin, Wiggen and maid Molly,
Pant, crying, " Thief! " The while behind
Shrunk Dorcas hops, and fills the wind
With apish merriment, shrill malice,
And cries of — " Well run, Poll! Run, Alice!
Run, child! The master's cloak and all!
How sad the goodman's ta'en a fall!
Mistress down, too — he! he! what pity!
Run, Alice child, my bird, my pretty;
Show 'em how nimble thou canst be, —
Ay, but the girl runs prettily.
Run, Hobbinol, thou gawky man!
Thou mayest kiss if catch thou can!
Odd's me! and what's it all about?
A thief? That mischief Faun! "
A shout
Startles the pigeons from the croft:
" We've circled him! " " He's in the loft. "
But as they, silent, crowd unto 't
I jump. For am not I a goat?
From out the hayloft's height I leap
O'er their craned heads into the deep
Grass of the orchard. Thence I run
Across lush meadows. One by one
They fall behind. . . .
A scarecrow I
Now seek, and 'bout it carefully
Enwrap the newly pilfered cloak. . . .
Scarecrows are such poor crazy folk. . . .