And gravely shook his head,
And then the simple forest child
Addressed the priest in accents mild,
And this is what he said:
“My uncle thinks it’s easy to gull
Little White Crow, I ween;
Hollow and empty he deems his skull,
He fancies his wits are all gone dull,—
He’s wrong,—they’re Al-gon-keen!”
He grinned, and without any further delay