The Grey-beard gathered in the green
From Wita-tonkan there.
At times the organ piped its song,
What time ’twas loud, her seemed it long;
Sometimes her courser wheeled along,
Hushed all her cries of bitter wrong:
By laughing friends, with fuller sound,
In curves the wooden racers ran;
Her drooping head to bob began
Upon the Merry-go-round.