For the moon, was only beginning to wax,
And the clouds, were muggy, and black,
And there wasn't much chance, of finding his way,
To the trail, of the beaten track.
But troubadours, were stout and strong,
Of tough, and stubborn, stuff,
And took the rough, with the sleek, and smooth,
The smooth, with the rusty rough,
So up thro' the drift, of the hummocky ruck,
Of the clouds, he searched for a star,