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 Tramp's Song.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
The Tramp's Song.
The tramper's life is wild and free,
From man he keeps aloof,
And when he can sleep beneath a tree,
Doth shun the prisoning roof.
How many a noon in warm sweet June
He lies on a bed of flowers,
And lulled to sleep by the blackbird's tune,
He dreams away the hours.
From man he keeps aloof,
And when he can sleep beneath a tree,
Doth shun the prisoning roof.
How many a noon in warm sweet June
He lies on a bed of flowers,
And lulled to sleep by the blackbird's tune,
He dreams away the hours.
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Or where the nodding hazel-trees
Are linked by a flowery chain,
And the honeysuckle lures the bees
To hide from the passing rain,—
Couched on the aromatic thyme,
With its blossom's purple flush,
There many an hour in the April-tide
He lies to hear the thrush.
Are linked by a flowery chain,
And the honeysuckle lures the bees
To hide from the passing rain,—
Couched on the aromatic thyme,
With its blossom's purple flush,
There many an hour in the April-tide
He lies to hear the thrush.
So where on the heath the living gold
Blooms on the prickly furze,
And where the purple thistles bold
Shed oft their downy burrs,
And the well-cropped grass is velvet soft,
And the broom grows tall and fair,
He lies on his back and gazes up
Into the wandering air.
Blooms on the prickly furze,
And where the purple thistles bold
Shed oft their downy burrs,
And the well-cropped grass is velvet soft,
And the broom grows tall and fair,
He lies on his back and gazes up
Into the wandering air.
And the bramble yields him coal-black fruit,
And the thorn its scarlet hip,
And the brook that washes the oak's snake root
Brings nectar to his lip.
And in the chilly Autumn-time,
When the leaves drop thick and fast,
He lights his fire in some warm deep nook,
And laughs at the threats of the blast.
And the thorn its scarlet hip,
And the brook that washes the oak's snake root
Brings nectar to his lip.
And in the chilly Autumn-time,
When the leaves drop thick and fast,
He lights his fire in some warm deep nook,
And laughs at the threats of the blast.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |