By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.

Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,

The roof of his low-porched house looms black;

Not a line of light at the door-sill's crack.

Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!

The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!

And for a word too much men oft have died.

The clouds blow heavy toward the moon.

The edge of the storm will reach it soon.

The kildee cries and the lonesome loon.