By the hair that riseth despite reproof
And the rebel veins that freeze,
That at night, when the graves give up their dead
And the thunder belloweth overhead,
You would not get me under this roof
For a lakh of the best rupees!
* * * * *
The Magistrate's risen and eke the Sub,
And bicycles homeward spin;
The clerks depart with a shrill hubbub