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,