Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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The Unpaid Musician.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
248
The Unpaid Musician.
Upon the willow, the tree that weeps,
The robin sits humble and still,
Hearing the lisp of the pretty wee brook,
And the silvery chirp of the rill.
See the black bulrush; it bobs and bobs
As proud as ever you will;
And whether the wind is low or high,
The rushes will never be still.
The robin sits humble and still,
Hearing the lisp of the pretty wee brook,
And the silvery chirp of the rill.
See the black bulrush; it bobs and bobs
As proud as ever you will;
And whether the wind is low or high,
The rushes will never be still.
Robin, with breast in a red, red puft,
Tunes, and carols, and sings,
As over the water the dragon-flies skim
On their golden and emerald wings.
And the gnats are waltzing as fast, as fast,
As if they were all mad things:
You'd think there'd been fifty fiddlers there,
Sawing and scraping their strings.
Tunes, and carols, and sings,
As over the water the dragon-flies skim
On their golden and emerald wings.
And the gnats are waltzing as fast, as fast,
As if they were all mad things:
You'd think there'd been fifty fiddlers there,
Sawing and scraping their strings.
And the dace in their silvery harlequin coats
Caper, and twist, and twine:
The water-rat sees them under the weeds
Glimmer, and glitter, and shine.
The king of them all stands there on his head,
And watches the dance combine;
The eft looks out from his wet bank-hole,
And envies the dancers from his soul.
Caper, and twist, and twine:
The water-rat sees them under the weeds
Glimmer, and glitter, and shine.
The king of them all stands there on his head,
And watches the dance combine;
The eft looks out from his wet bank-hole,
And envies the dancers from his soul.
The robin gets never a fee from them,
Though he sings by the long, long hour;
Yet he carols his best, and all for love,
For love is the poet's dower.
And he thinks as he dozes by night at roost,
“Well, I never earned scrap or groat;
Yet I did my best, it must be confessed,
And was true to every note.
Though he sings by the long, long hour;
Yet he carols his best, and all for love,
For love is the poet's dower.
And he thinks as he dozes by night at roost,
“Well, I never earned scrap or groat;
Yet I did my best, it must be confessed,
And was true to every note.
“Still to-morrow, to-morrow, when larks arise,
I'll hie me again to the brook,
And I'll sing those little merry-go-rounds
No song set down in a book;
But one from my own heart, all my own:
My thanks to the God above;
For Love has its own reward, you see,
And its best reward is Love.”
I'll hie me again to the brook,
And I'll sing those little merry-go-rounds
No song set down in a book;
But one from my own heart, all my own:
My thanks to the God above;
For Love has its own reward, you see,
And its best reward is Love.”
There are poets even among the birds,
And this was one of the lot:
He sang all day to the dancing fish,
Yet never a stiver he got.
Well! poets are born to sing and to starve:
It has been always so;
Yet 't is a gift, the gift to sing—
That, Robin, you should know.
And this was one of the lot:
He sang all day to the dancing fish,
Yet never a stiver he got.
Well! poets are born to sing and to starve:
It has been always so;
Yet 't is a gift, the gift to sing—
That, Robin, you should know.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |