“Now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities, Eh! what is this?--Where are they, at all? Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities? Well! as I live!” He looks blank as a wall, Poor Ferryman! Round him, and round him he gazes, But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes Of utter bewilderment! All, all are gone-- And he stands alone, Like a statue of stone, In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear With other odd sounds--“Ha! ha! ha! ha! Fol, lol; zidziddel--quee, quee-bah! bah! Fizzigig--giggidy! phsee! sha! sha!” “O ye thieves, ye thieves! ye rascally thieves!” The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher, And there, alas! to his horror perceives, That the Little Folks’ mode of making him richer Has been to pay him with--withered leaves.
Sooth ’tis, old Friend, Thou banishest The golden rest Of the hours; Dost cruelly send The birds off, and The twinkling band Of the flowers; Dost lash the shadows out of the woods, And kill the souls in the plunging floods.
Thou chillest the green, And it departs Into the hearts Of the meas, And dreams of sheen, Grasses and leaves, Blossoms and sheaves, And of trees; Thou foldest all colours up in mould, And touchest the aching light with cold.
There is no gloom Of vanished wold, Inlaid with gold, But glens, And heights in bloom, And shadowing woods, And tumbling floods, And plains, Of Summer in the core of the world, And golden skies are there unfurled.
The Fairies keep A revel there, And banish care With mirth; When snows are deep, And woods are cross, Enjoy our loss In the Earth; The leaves and grass and water-springs, The glorious world with its living things, Each happy thought that goes on wings, And sings, Or thinks itself in blossomings Of red and gold, All bless the cold, That ruleth with an iron hand To build in the Earth a Fairyland.
At Christmas tide, On country farms In games and charms Thou thrivest; By deep hearth side, When tales are told And songs are trolled, As through the mould Thou drivest The shuddering flowers, thou dost begin To gather us up, and drive us in.
For all, whom care Or labour drew From old to new In the year, Thou dost prepare The roaring hearth, And garrulous mirth, And beer In massy cans, to season it, Nut-brown and livelier than thy wit.
