AN OLD SONG
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WAS not apprenticed nor ever dwelt in famousLincolnshire;I've served one master ill and well much more thanseven year;And never took up to poaching as you shall quicklyfind;But 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the seasonof the year. I roamed where nobody had a right but keepers andsquires, and thereI sought for nests, wild flowers, oak sticks, andmoles, both far and near.And had to run from farmers, and learnt theLincolnshire song:"Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in theseason of the year." I took those walks years after, talking with friendor dear,Or solitary musing; but when the moon shone clearI had no joy or sorrow that could not be expressedBy "'Tis my delight of a shiny night in theseason of the year." Since then I've thrown away a chance to fight agamekeeper;And I less often trespass, and what I see or hearIs mostly from the road or path by day: yet stillI sing:"Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in theseason of the year." For if I am contented, at home or anywhere,Or if I sigh for I know not what, or my heartbeats with some fear,It is a strange kind of delight to sing or whistle just:"Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in theseason of the year." And with this melody on my lips and no one by tocare,Indoors, or out on shiny nights or dark in open air,I am for a moment made a man that sings out ofhis heart:"Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in theseason of the year."
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