Swift swallows sailing from the Spanish main,

         O rain-birds racing merrily away

From hill-tops parched with heat and sultry plain

         Of wilting plants and fainting flowers, say—

When at the noon-hour from the chapel school

         The children dash and scamper down the dale,

Scornful of teacher's rod and binding rule

         Forever broken and without avail,

Do they still stop beneath the giant tree

         To gather locusts in their childish greed,

And chuckle when they break the pods to see

         The golden powder clustered round the seed?