Part 4 — The Land of Topsy Turvey
Reading edition
In the noon of night, o'er the stormy hills The fairy minstrels play; And the strains replete with fantastic dreams, On the wild gusts flit away. Then the sleeper thinks, as the dreamful song On the blast to his slumber comes, That his nose as the church's spire is long, And like its organ hums! R. D. Williams.
Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, Are played by one, the merry little Sprite? I wing through air from the camp to the court, From King to clown, and of all make sport, Singing I am the Sprite Of the merry midnight Who laughs at weak mortals and loves the moonlight. Thomas Moore.