They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far,
They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are,
They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up to the brim;
But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him:
“What, blown already!” Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!)
“You boast indeed of your wonderful speed—but what is the boasting worth?
Now, if you can run as the antelope runs and if you can turn like a hare,
Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove your boasting fair!”
“Race? What is a race” (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word)
“Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard,