So—one night—he shuffled past, in his buckled shoon.

We shall never see his face,

Twisted to that queer grimace,

Waiting in the wind and rain, till we called his tune;

Very whimsical and white,

Waiting on a blue Twelfth Night!

He is grown too proud at last—old blind Moone.

Yet, when May was at the door,

And Moone was wont to sing,

Many a maid and bachelor

Whirled into the ring:

Standing on a tilted wain

He played so sweet and loud

The Mayor forgot his golden chain

And jigged it with the crowd.

24

24

Old blind Moone, his fiddle scattered flowers along the street;

Into the dust of Brookfield Fair

Carried a shining primrose air,

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