DANSONS LA GIGUE

DANCE the jig, whirl In the street, girl. Rush up and down, Houses, to town— On the see-saw Made out of raw Hot yellow rays, Crude edges of days. Dance the jig, whirl— Like your blond curl! Oh! it is fine to-day, On this Bank Holiday! Sound of young feet Comes down the street ... Never again Pleasure or pain.... Dance the jig, whirl In the street, girl. Do the dead ache In summer, to slake Their thirst of love?—Hush,— No tears to gush, My soul is of mud, Cannot weep blood.... . . . . Dance the jig, dance the jig,— Dance the jig, girl.