AT PUNNET'S TOWN A swell within her billowed skirts, Like a great ship with sails unfurled, The madwoman goes gallantly Upon the ridges of her world. With eagle nose and wisps of grey She strides upon the Westward Hills, Swings her umbrella joyously, And waves it to the waving mills, Talking and chuckling as she goes, Indifferent to sun or rain, With all that merry company The singing children of her brain.
DALLINGTON Clouds all tumbled and white, Frowning clouds and grey; Dallington high on the hilltop, Dallington hears what they say. "Oh, I have come from the Channel." "And I from the Westward Hill Where Punnet's Town blinks at the sunset Between a mill and a mill." "I have showered on field and fallow Till I'm empty and dry," says one. "I scowled at the people in Cross-in-Hands, And was driven away by the sun." "Oh, I am primed for a fight, And if I can find one more To challenge my path in the heavens There'll be rumblings and flashes galore." "Oh, I have a hatful of hail." "And I have a share of sleet." "So shall we go cruising to battle And rattle it down on their street?" Clouds all tumbled and white, Frowning clouds and grey; Dallington high on the hilltop, Dallington hears what they say.
EENA-MENA-MINA-MO Eena-mena-mina-mo, Catch a nigger by ees toe, If 'e olleys, let'n go. O-U-T spells out And out you must go. You'm of it O! Children playing on the green: Joe Treguddick, deathly ill, Hears them very clearly still. Silently, with blinking eyes, Two great sons have dragged his bed To the window, till he dies. Now his mind is in his fields Where all things lose their certain shape. The cows in munching quiet lie, And on the orange of the sky The trees stand out like scissored crape. With deep cool breaths he drinks the night: Then, in a sudden sweat of pain, He twists upon his bed again. The children's voices die away, And seldom now the footsteps pass. A hobnailed tread upon the road Falls sudden silent on the grass. Still with throb and throb of pain He hears the children at their play Chanting insistent in his brain. Coughs: and with a whistling breath, Though he knows how the count will fall, Turns to play a game with Death, Turns to the last game of all. Eena-mena-mina-mo, Catch a nigger by ees toe. If 'e olleys, let'n go. O-U-T spells out And out you must go. You'm of it, Joe!
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