Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye,

Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher,

Felt the girdle loosen'd, seen the tresses fly. Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset.

Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing'd Spring!

We've travelled times to this old common:
Often we've hung our pots in the gorse.
We've had a stirring life, old woman!
You, and I, and the old grey horse.
Races, and fairs, and royal occasions,
Found us coming to their call:
Now they'll miss us at our stations:
There's a Juggler outjuggles all!

Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.

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When the hand's firm as driven stakes! Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful,

Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful: Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.

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Here's where the lads of the village cricket:
I was a lad not wide from here:
Couldn't I whip off the bale1 from the
wicket?

Like an old world those days appear! Donkey, sheep, geese and thatched ale-house I know them!

They are old friends of my halts, and seem, Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: 31 Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.

Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool. Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. You that are sneering at my profession,

Haven't you juggled a vast amount? There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, Juggles more games than my sins'll count.

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