And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveths the woods deep gloom; And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom; Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill; O, when the moon shines and the dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl!
Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight; The owl hath his share of good: If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, He is lord in the dark green wood; Nor lonely the bird nor his ghastly mate, They are each unto each a pride; Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate Hath rent them from all beside; So, when the night falls and dogs do howl, Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl.
We know not alway Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.
[A 'RITHMETIC LESSON.]
PHILLIP BAILEY.
OH, ho, hum! my sakes alive! Where is my old 'rithmetic? Here 'tis: five times one are five. This most makes a fellow sick! Let me see: well, four times eight, Guess I'll have to take a look; I'm so sick of this old slate. Wish the scamp that made this book Had to sleep on stacks of rules, Covered up with multiplication! Don't see who invented schools— Meanest things in all creation!