GREY as a guinea-fowl is the rain Squawking down from the boughs again. "Anne, Anne, Go fill the pail," Said the old witch who sat on the rail. "Though there is a hole in the bucket, Anne, Anne, It will fill my pocket; The water-drops when they cross my doors Will turn to guineas and gold moidores. . . ." The well-water hops across the floors; Whimpering, "Anne" it cries, implores, And the guinea-fowl-plumaged rain, Squawking down from the boughs again, Cried, "Anne, Anne, go fill the bucket, There is a hole in the witch's pocket -- And the water-drops like gold moidores, Obedient girl, will surely be yours. So, Anne, Anne, Go fill the pail Of the old witch who sits on the rail!" |