I shot an arrow: how it sang!
It was a poisoned arrow!
And when it turned, a boomerang,
It chilled me to the marrow.
I know not where the arrow struck,
And care but little whether
It came straight back or ran amuck
Upon the near-by heather.
But _this_ I know; however fast
The arrow homeward scurried,
My getaway was unsurpassed--
For, Goodness, how I hurried!