QUEER LITTLE FOLKS. 141 



And all that tore their hairs of black, 



Or wet their eyes of blue. 

 Pray tell me, sweetest katydid, 



What did poor Katy do ? 



4. Ab, no ! the living oak shall crash, 



That stood for ages still, 

 The rock shall rend its mossy base, 



And thunder down the hill, 

 Before the little katydid 



Shall add one word, to tell 

 The mystic story of the maid 



"Whose name she knows so well. 



5. Peace to the ever-murmuring race ! 



And when the latest one 

 Shall fold in death her feeble wings 



Beneath the autumn sun, 

 Then shall she raise her fainting voice 



And lift her drooping lid, 



And then the child of future years 



Shall hear what Katy did. 



Holmes. 



