THE BURGOMASTER GULL.
161
So proudly his dusky wings are spread,
And he launches out on the breeze,—
When lo! what thunder of wrath and dread!
What deadly pangs are these!
And he launches out on the breeze,—
When lo! what thunder of wrath and dread!
What deadly pangs are these!
The red blood drips and the feathers fly,
Down drop the pinions wide;
The robber-chief, with a bitter cry,
Falls headlong in the tide!
Down drop the pinions wide;
The robber-chief, with a bitter cry,
Falls headlong in the tide!
They bear him off with laugh and shout;
The wary birds return,—
From the clove-brown feathers that float about
The glorious news they learn.
The wary birds return,—
From the clove-brown feathers that float about
The glorious news they learn.
Then such a tumult fills the place
As never was sung or said;
And all cry, wild with joy, "The base,
Bad Burgomaster's dead!"
As never was sung or said;
And all cry, wild with joy, "The base,
Bad Burgomaster's dead!"
And the old-wives sit with their caps so white,
And their pretty beaks so red,
And swing on the billows, and scream with delight,
For the Burgomaster's dead!
And their pretty beaks so red,
And swing on the billows, and scream with delight,
For the Burgomaster's dead!
