’Now tell to us, thou civil engineer,
   If this be fit to drink.’ 
And they showed him a cup of the town water,
   Which was as black as ink.

 He took three sips of the town water,
   And black in the face was he;
And they turned them back and fled away,
   Amazed that this should be.

And he has written a broad letter
   And sealed it with a ring,
And the letter saith that the town water
   Is not a goodly thing.

And they have met, and the Bailies all,
   And eke the Councillors,
And they have ta’en the broad letter
   And read it within the doors.

And there has fallen a great quarrel,
   And a striving within the doors,
And quarrelsome words have the Bailies said,
   And eke the Councillors.

 And one saith, ‘We will have other water,’
   And another saith, ‘But nay;’
And none may tell what the end shall be,
   Alack and well-a-day!

 [GREEK TITLE]

I love the inoffensive frog,
   ‘A little child, a limber elf,’
With health and spirits all agog,
He does the long jump in a bog
Or teaches men to swim and dive. 
If he should be cut up alive,
   Should I not be cut up myself?

So I intend to be straightway
   An Anti-Vivisectionist;
I’ll read Miss Cobbe five hours a day
And watch the little frogs at play,
With no desire to see their hearts
At work, or other inward parts,
   If other inward parts exist.

 TO NUMBER 27X.

Beloved Peeler! friend and guide
   And guard of many a midnight reeler,
None worthier, though the world is wide,
      Beloved Peeler.

Thou from before the swift four-wheeler
   Didst pluck me, and didst thrust aside
A strongly built provision-dealer

Who menaced me with blows, and cried
   ‘Come on!  Come on!’ O Paian, Healer,
Then but for thee I must have died,
      Beloved Peeler!

 A STREET CORNER

Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle
   Of ninety degrees (this angle is right),
You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle
   Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night;
Though day be dreary and night be wet,
You will find a ceaseless concourse met;
Their laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle,
   And now and again their Fife fists fight.

Often here the voice of the crier
   Heralds a sale in the City Hall,
And slowly but surely drawing nigher
   Is heard the baker’s bugle call. 
The baker halts where the two ways meet,
And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet
That with breath of bellows and heart of fire
   He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall.

 And on Saturday night just after eleven,
   When the taverns have closed a moment ago,
The vocal efforts of six or seven
   Make the corner a place of woe. 
For the time is fitful, the notes are queer,
And it sounds to him who dwelleth near
Like the wailing for cats in a feline heaven
   By orphan cats who are left below.