But the deep tone of the owlet’s moan
Is a note of courage all free,
And the whip-poor-will’s trill beneath the hill
Gives music and motion to me.
The farmers’ geese are very well fed,
And fat and sleek are they;—
The blood-hound lies in his dreamy bed,
So let me seek my prey.
On drumming wings the partridge springs,
As over the brakes I fly;