POETRY.
THE SONG OF THE TINKER.
I AM the man of pot and pan,
I am a lad of mettle ; My tent I pitch by the wayside ditch To mend your can and kettle ; While town-bred folk bear a year-long yoke Among their• feeble fellows, I clink and clank on the hedgerow bank, And blow my snoring bellows.
I loved a lass with hair like brass, And eyes like a brazier glowing ; But the female crew, what they will do, I swear is past all knowing !
She flung her cap at a ploughman chap, And a fool I needs must think her, Who left for an oaf the mug and loaf, And the snug little tent of a tinker.
But, clank and clang, let women go bang, And who shall care a farden ?
With the solder strong of a laugh and a song My mind I'll heal and harden.
My ways I'll wend, and the pots I'll mend For gaffer and for gammer, And drive my cart with a careless heart, And sit by the road and hammer I MAY BYRON.
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