Song The Fifth

Day far into the west is gone:
Weary the Beggar wanders on,—
On where the infant river gushes
The dreary fruitless moorlands through,

And o'er the necks o' the sighing rushes
Will-o'-the-Wisp goes dancing blue.

Cloud on the hill,
It comes down by the mill:
The wheel, it is going;
The meal, it is snowing;
And the miller, good soul,
Gives the Beggar his dole.

The moorland cloud is black with thunder,
Old Bluegown's badge is gleaming under.
With tentative staff, high stepping slow,
Blind, face up, dog-led, see him go.
Thunder-gloom, to him there's none;
Down he sits and picks his bone.
Doggie, he
(Head awry!
Watchful eye!
Muzzle lent on Master's knee,
Sharpening, twitching, farther leant!)
Knows for whom that bone is meant.

Hearts are large when Harvest comes:
Blithe the mealy Beggar hums.