"It's got a bit of all on 'em," said the Tinker.
"I should very much like to hear it," said I.
"Honest an' true?" he enquired a little diffidently.
"Honest and true!" I answered, as I had done upon a former occasion.
"Then so ye shall, though it ain't finished, or rather it ain't begun, as ye might say, for I can't find a good opening verse. I want to say that if a man don't happen to be blest wi' riches there's better things for him if he's only got eyes to see 'em." Saying which (and after no little rummaging) the Tinker drew a crumpled paper from capacious pocket and, bending to the fire, read as follows:
"'Instead of riches give to me
Eyes, the great, good things to see
The golden earth, the jewelled sky
The best that in all hearts doth lie.
Give me this: when day's begun
A woodland glade, a ray of sun
Falling where the dewdrops lie
Give me this, and rich am I.
Give me this: the song of bird
In lonely wood at sunset heard
Piping of his evening hymn
'Mid a leafy twilight dim.
Give me this: a stream that wendeth,
Where the sighing willow bendeth,
Singing through the woodland ways
Never-ending songs of praise.
Give me these, with eyes to see
And richer than a king I'll be.'"