No bidder he found, and he stood astound At the close of the market-day, When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone Each man his several way.
He stalked by his load along the road; His face with wrath was red: His arms he tossed, like a goodman crossed In seeking his daily bread.
His face was red, and fierce was his tread, And with lusty voice cried he: "My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell, If he'll my chapman be."
These words he spoke just under an oak Seven hundred winters old; And he straight was aware of a man sitting there On the roots and grassy mould.
The roots rose high o'er the green-sward dry, And the grass around was green, Save just the space of the stranger's place, Where it seemed as fire had been.
All scorched was the spot, as gipsy-pot Had swung and bubbled there: The grass was marred, the roots were charred, And the ivy stems were bare.
The stranger up-sprung: to the farmer he flung A loud and friendly hail, And he said, "I see well, thou hast corn to sell, And I'll buy it on the nail."
The twain in a trice agreed on the price; The stranger his earnest paid, And with horses and wain to come for the grain His own appointment made.
The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked His way right merrily on: He struck up a song, as he trudged along, For joy that his job was done.
His children fair he danced in the air; His heart with joy was big; He kissed his wife; he seized a knife, He slew a suckling pig.