Why is it every one here is housing Fiddlers, idlers, fancy dancers. At Milem Alkire's why carousing; Everything that the good abhor In lovers and romancers? The world is mad, the village is mad, Even the cattle bellow and run. Old maid, young maid, man and lad Have eaten of something half insane; Such antics never before were done And never it seems may be again Under the shining sun. And now comes villainy out of the fun. Come with the torch, come with the halter, Gather the posse, stay nor falter, Catch the scoundrel who spoiled our peace And hang him up in the maple tree's Highest branch. For what is the law If it can't slip the noose and draw This minstrel man to a thing of awe? VII Then the pastor said: Talk of the gallows Is just the thing for it's righteous malice; And we need hearts with piety callous For work like this, I might say salus Populi, but bright-eyed Alice Can help us in this matter kinetic Who has grown psychic and grown prophetic, Sees round corners, and looks through doors And spies old treasure under the floors. And I have heard that Alice averred, The cornet player's the self-same bird Who enticed the wife of Starling Turner And kidnapped Imogene; he will spurn her Later for some one else, unless we Capture and hang the vile sojourner; So now for Alice, he said, and bless me! VIII Alice came out to lead the mob Catch the scoundrel and finish the job. Down to Fruitport before it is dark Come, said Alice, Joan of Arc. Farmers, butchers, cobblers, dentists, Lawyers, doctors, preachers, druggists Hustled and ran in the afternoon, Following Alice who led the way Chanting an ancient roundelay, A wild and haunting tune. Her hair streamed over her little shoulders Back in the wind for all beholders. And her little feet were as swift and white As waves that dance in the noonday light. Youths were panting, middle aged men Had to rest and resume again. She ran the posse almost to death, All were gasping and out of breath. At last they halted upon the ridge. There! said Alice, beside the bridge Under its shadow. Look, he's there Weaving lilies in Imogene's hair; His musical instrument laid aside Now he has charmed the maiden pride Of Imogene who is not his bride, Come, said Alice, before they hide. IX