THE SCREECH OWL. 
While the tempest yet was stiller, 
Homeward rode the kindly miller, 
With his drenchéd meal-sacks o’er him, 
And his little son before him ; 
Dripping wet, yet loud in laughter, 
Rode the jolly hunters after; 
And sore wet, and blown, and wildern, 
Went a huddling group of children ; 
But each, through the tempest’s pother, 
Got home safely to its mother ; 
And ere afternoon was far on, 
Up the mountain spurred the Baron. 
How can evil then betide em! 
In their houses warm they hide ’em. 
In his chimney-coruer smoking, 
Sits the miller, spite thy croaking ; 
And the children, snug and cozy, 
In their beds sleep warm and rosy ; 
And the Baron with his lady, 
Plays at chess sedate and steady. 
Hoot away, then, ’an it cheer thee, 
Only I and darkness hear thee. 
Trusting Heaven, we’ll fear no ruin, 
Spite thy ominous tu-whoo-ing ! 
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