Iv

The moon blooms out, a great white rose; The stars wheel onward towards the west; The barnyard-cock wakes once and crows; The farm is wrapped in peaceful rest; The cricket chirrs; the firefly glows:-- The whippoorwill is calling, “Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will,” Where the bramble-blooms are falling On the rill; The moon her watch is keeping, And the whippoorwill is weeping, “Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will:” Lonely still, The whippoorwill is weeping, “Whip-poor-will.”