They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.
Oh, what’s the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird’s note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
I’ll brim it well with pieces red,