Room for his shadow on the grass--let it pass! To left and right--stand clear! This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid! This is the great God Tyr! Tyr thought hard till he hammered out a plan, For he knew it was not right (And it is not right) that The Beast should master Man; So he went to the Children of the Night. He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake. When he begged for the Knife they said: ‘The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!’ And that was the price he paid. Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead--run ahead! Shout it so the Women’s Side can hear! This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid! This is the great God Tyr! Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk, As far as we can see them and beyond. We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep Tally at the shearing-pond. We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please, We can sleep after meals in the sun; For Shepherd-of-the-Twilight is dismayed at the Blade, Feet-in-the-Night have run! Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr aie!), Devil-in-the-Dusk has run! Then: Room for his shadow on the grass--let it pass! To left and right--stand clear! This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid! This is the great God Tyr! BROTHER SQUARE-TOES Philadelphia If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, You mustn’t take my stories for a guide. There’s little left indeed of the city you will read of, And all the folk I write about have died. Now few will understand if you mention Talleyrand, Or remember what his cunning and his skill did. And the cabmen at the wharf do not know Count Zinnendorf, Nor the Church in Philadelphia he builded. It is gone, gone, gone with lost Atlantis (Never say I didn’t give you warning). In Seventeen Ninety-three ‘twas there for all to see, But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning. If you’re off to Philadelphia in the morning, You mustn’t go by everything I’ve said. Bob Bicknell’s Southern Stages have been laid aside for ages, But the Limited will take you there instead. Toby Hirte can’t be seen at One Hundred and Eighteen, North Second Street--no matter when you call; And I fear you’ll search in vain for the wash-house down the lane Where Pharaoh played the fiddle at the ball. It is gone, gone, gone with Thebes the Golden (Never say I didn’t give you warning). In Seventeen Ninety-four ‘twas a famous dancing-floor-- But it’s not in Philadelphia this morning.