Yet still the Pedlar his old burden sings,—
'What, pretty sweetheart, shall I show to you?
Here's orange ribands, here's a string of pearls,
Here's silk of buttercup and pansy glove,
A pin of tortoiseshell for windy curls,
A box of silver, scented sweet with clove:
Come now,' he says, with dim and lifted face,
'I pass not often such a lonely place.'
'Pluck not a hair!' a hidden rabbit cried,
'With but one hair he'll steal thy heart away,