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Oh, the ricks, the ricks, In the meadows lying, The eye cannot count You, for all its trying.

Oh, the ricks, the ricks, In the green morasses, What do you guard: You heaped, heavy masses?

Pray, behold us, good sir: We were once bright flowers; But the sharp scythe falls And the whole field cowers.

We were littered here, All mown down and shattered, On the meadowland From each other scattered.

We have no defense: Evil guests come clawing— And upon our crests Perch the black crows, cawing.

On our heads they perch, The starred heavens dimming. Here the jackdaws flock, Their foul hutches trimming.