OWLS ON A FROLIC.
THE OWLS UPSETTING THE LAMP.
The owls are abroad on a mad carouse,
Waking the echoes far and wide;
They whirl in a crowd through the ruined church,
Or up to the belfry glide.
The little screech-owl makes a horrid din;
While the great white owl looks wise;
And the horned owl nods his head, and blinks;
As around the lamp he flies.
The lamp is a cup, half filled with oil,
That swings from a broken beam;
And, over the traveler sleeping below,
It throws but a dusky gleam.
The owls have no fear of the burning wick—
’Tis only a cotton loop—
They’re after the oil in the swinging cup,
And down on its brim they swoop.
The weary traveler, sound asleep,
Hears naught of the noise o’erhead,
A rickety chair as a bedstead serves,
His overcoat is his bed.
With the sweep of the wings the lamp upsets,
While the gurgling oil o’erflows
With a drip, and a rush, on the great owl’s tail,
A splash on the traveler’s nose.
He’s up in a trice, and, seizing a broom,
He arms himself for a fight.
But all is still in the ruined church;
For the owls are out—and his light.