A Wanderer

When Watkin shifts the burden of his cares And all that irked him in his bound employ, Once more become a vagrom-hearted boy, He moves to roundelays and jocund airs; Loitering with dusty harvestmen, he shares Old ale and sunshine; or, with maids half-coy, Pays court to shadows; fools himself with joy, Shaking a leg at junketings and fairs. Sometimes, returning down his breezy miles, A snatch of wayward April he will bring, Piping the daffodilly that beguiles Foolhardy lovers in the surge of spring. And then once more by lanes and field-path stiles Up the green world he wanders like a king.