Chapter I: WAS not apprenticed nor ever dwelt in famous

Lincolnshire;
I've served one master ill and well much more than
seven year;
And never took up to poaching as you shall quickly
find;
But 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the season
of the year.

I roamed where nobody had a right but keepers and
squires, and there
I sought for nests, wild flowers, oak sticks, and
moles, both far and near.
And had to run from farmers, and learnt the
Lincolnshire song:
"Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the
season of the year."

I took those walks years after, talking with friend or dear, Or solitary musing; but when the moon shone clear I had no joy or sorrow that could not be expressed By "'Tis my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year."

Since then I've thrown away a chance to fight a
gamekeeper;
And I less often trespass, and what I see or hear
Is mostly from the road or path by day: yet still
I sing:
"Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the
season of the year."

For if I am contented, at home or anywhere,
Or if I sigh for I know not what, or my heart
beats with some fear,
It is a strange kind of delight to sing or whistle just:
"Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the
season of the year."

And with this melody on my lips and no one by to
care,
Indoors, or out on shiny nights or dark in open air,
I am for a moment made a man that sings out of
his heart:
"Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the
season of the year."

THERE WAS A TIME

THERE was a time when this poor frame was whole And I had youth and never another care, Or none that should have troubled a strong soul. Yet, except sometimes in a frosty air When my heels hammered out a melody From pavements of a city left behind, I never would acknowledge my own glee Because it was less mighty than my mind Had dreamed of. Since I could not boast of strength Great as I wished, weakness was all my boast. I sought yet hated pity till at length I earned it. Oh, too heavy was the cost. But now that there is something I could use My youth and strength for, I deny the age, The care and weakness that I know--refuse To admit I am unworthy of the wage Paid to a man who gives up eyes and breath For what can neither ask nor heed his death.

AMBITION

UNLESS it was that day I never knew Ambition. After a night of frost, before The March sun brightened and the South-west blew, Jackdaws began to shout and float and soar Already, and one was racing straight and high Alone, shouting like a black warrior Challenges and menaces to the wide sky. With loud long laughter then a woodpecker Ridiculed the sadness of the owl's last cry. And through the valley where all the folk astir Made only plumes of pearly smoke to tower Over dark trees and white meadows happier Than was Elysium in that happy hour, A train that roared along raised after it And carried with it a motionless white bower Of purest cloud, from end to end close-knit, So fair it touched the roar with silence. Time Was powerless while that lasted. I could sit And think I had made the loveliness of prime, Breathed its life into it and were its lord, And no mind lived save this 'twixt clouds and rime. Omnipotent I was, nor even deplored That I did nothing. But the end fell like a bell: The bower was scattered; far off the train roared. But if this was ambition I cannot tell. What 'twas ambition for I know not well.

NO ONE CARES LESS THAN I

"No one cares less than I, Nobody knows but God, Whether I am destined to lie Under a foreign clod," Were the words I made to the bugle call in the morning.

But laughing, storming, scorning, Only the bugles know What the bugles say in the morning, And they do not care, when they blow The call that I heard and made words to early this morning.

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