Whirlwind, Whirlwind, whither art thou hieing,
Snapping off the flowers young and fair;—
Setting all the chaff and the withered leaves a-flying,—
Tossing up the dust in the air?
"I," said the Whirlwind, "cannot stop for talking!
Give me up your cap, my little man;
And the polished stick, that you will not need for walking.
While you run to catch them, if you can!
"You, pretty maiden—none has time to tell her
I am coming, ere I shall be there.