Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t Willow, titwillow, titwillow, That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And if you remain callous and obdurate, I Shall perish as he did, and you will know why, Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!” HE AND SHE HE. I know a youth who loves a little maid— (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Silent is he, for he’s modest and afraid— (Hey, but he’s timid as a youth can be!) SHE. I know a maid who loves a gallant youth— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) _She_ cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth— (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do? HE. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep— (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep— (Hey, but he’s wretched as a youth can be!) SHE. She’s very thin and she’s very pale— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail— (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do? SHE. If I were the youth I should offer her my name— (Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!) HE. If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame— (Hey, but he’s bashful as a youth can be!) SHE. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) HE. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way— (For I really do believe that timid youth will die!) BOTH. I thank you much for your counsel true; I’ve learnt what that poor soul ought to do! THE MIGHTY MUST COME mighty Must! Inevitable Shall! In thee I trust. Time weaves my coronal! Go mocking Is! Go disappointing Was! That I am this Ye are the cursed cause! Yet humble Second shall be First, I ween; And dead and buried be the curst Has Been! Oh weak Might Be! Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should! How powerless ye For evil or for good! In every sense Your moods I cheerless call, Whate’er your tense Ye are Imperfect, all! Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown In ye! Away! The Mighty Must alone Shall be! A MIRAGE