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.