Rising from marsh and drain,
Ask the heavens in season for
Showers of genial rain.
Thrawneens make my wall
Fotail overhead;
Ryegrass makes my door
Cawgrass is my bed.
Should any intruder come
To invade my herbaceous cover,
I'd stooping hide, or quickly glide
Dawn alleys of mottled clover.
Crake, Crake, Crakem
The sun darts dawn his rays,
O'er leaf and grass there reigns
A warm and dazzling blaze,
Throughout the fragrant mead,
No chirp or song of bird.
Nor cheerful sound of sharpening scythe,
Nor grass hopper is heard.