But the tinker he swore he could beat them all three, For gi' me a pair of old bellows, says he, And I'll make them roar out like the wind in a storm And make them blow fire out of coal hardly warm. The toper said nothing but wished the quart full And swore he could toss it all off at a pull. Have one, said the tinker; but wit was away, When the bet was to bind him he'd nothing to pay. And thus in the face of life's sun-and-shower weather They drank, bragged, and sung, and got merry together.
The sun he went down--the last gleam from his brow Flung a smile of repose on the holiday plough; The glooms they approached, and the dews like a rain Fell thick and hung pearls on the old sorrel mane Of the horse that the miller had brought to be shod, And the morning awoke, saw a sight rather odd-- For a bit of the halter still hung at the door, Bit through by the horse now at feed on the moor; And the old tinker's budget lay still in the weather, While all kept on singing and drinking together.
I've left my own old home of homes, Green fields and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes, I pause and hardly know her face. I miss the hazel's happy green, The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms, Where envy's sneer was never seen, Where staring malice never comes.
I miss the heath, its yellow furze, Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs That spread a wilderness indeed; The woodland oaks and all below That their white powdered branches shield, The mossy paths: the very crow Croaks music in my native field.
I sit me in my corner chair That seems to feel itself from home, And hear bird music here and there From hawthorn hedge and orchard come; I hear, but all is strange and new: I sat on my old bench in June, The sailing puddock's shrill "peelew" On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.
I walk adown the narrow lane, The nightingale is singing now, But like to me she seems at loss For Royce Wood and its shielding bough. I lean upon the window sill, The trees and summer happy seem; Green, sunny green they shine, but still My heart goes far away to dream.
Of happiness, and thoughts arise With home-bred pictures many a one, Green lanes that shut out burning skies And old crooked stiles to rest upon; Above them hangs the maple tree, Below grass swells a velvet hill, And little footpaths sweet to see Go seeking sweeter places still,