Poetry
An, 'tis well enough roving in a world of summer skies A pedlar might be merry then, and not be sore at heart, With gold and silver trinkets for to match with laughing - eyes, And a little grey donkey and a high-wheeled cart.
.A pedlar might be merry then—aye sure, as I have been, A-questing down the country when hills are starred with flowers,
And all the woodland singing, and all the meadows green: And never a lamplit window for to haunt his evening hours.
For then he'd walk with Wonder, but now, 'tis Sorrow old, A far faint voice that follows him, that goes with him along, And mocks him on the hillside, and in the valley's gold, And sweet in roadside gardens filled with autumn robin-song.
'Tis all but him have dwellings, over all the shires, Over all of England, from sea to misty sea ; And men will come at twilight to their own hearth's fires, -And mice will build their winter nests beneath the wild rose tree.
Aye 'tis well enough roving when the land is bright, A pedlar might be merry then, before the swallow's flown, With never a lamplit window for to haunt him thro' the night, And he and his little donkey on the dark road alone.
Pedlar's Song in Autumn
'Haw= MACLAREN..
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