Puck tuned the fiddle-strings, and country maids grew coy,

Tavern doors grew magical when Colonel Jack might tap at them,

The gay Golden Farmer and the Hereford Boy.

What are you seeking then? I asked this honest pedlar.

—O, Mulled Sack or Natty Hawes might ease me of my load!—

Where are they flown then?—Flown where I follow;

They are all gone for ever up the great North Road.

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33

Rogues were they all; but the white dust assoils ’em!

Paradise without a spice of deviltry would cloy.

Heavy is my pack till I meet with Jerry Abershaw,

The gay Golden Farmer and the Hereford Boy.

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34

THE RIVER OF STARS

(A tale of Niagara)

THE lights of a hundred cities are fed by its midnight power.

Their wheels are moved by its thunder. But they, too, have their hour.

The tale of the Indian lovers, a cry from the years that are flown,

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