DANCE the jig, whirl
In the street, girl.
Rush up and down,
Houses, to town—
On the see-saw
Made out of raw
Hot yellow rays,
Crude edges of days.
Dance the jig, whirl—
Like your blond curl!
Oh! it is fine to-day,
On this Bank Holiday!
Sound of young feet
Comes down the street ...
Never again
Pleasure or pain....
Dance the jig, whirl
In the street, girl.
Do the dead ache
In summer, to slake
Their thirst of love?—Hush,—
No tears to gush,
My soul is of mud,
Cannot weep blood....
. . . .
Dance the jig, dance the jig,—
Dance the jig, girl.