London Folk
THE folk who dwell in London town Are learned folk and wise;
The pageantry of the wide earth Passes before their eyes.
But there’s more than the London folk have seen, Beyond their dead gray skies;
There ‘s more than the London folk believe ‘Twixt sunset and moonrise.
The pageantry of the wide earth Passes before their eyes.
But there’s more than the London folk have seen, Beyond their dead gray skies;
There ‘s more than the London folk believe ‘Twixt sunset and moonrise.
Oh, there’s many and many a goodly sport Well known in London town;
But I saw King Oberon of Faëry In a wood by Merrow Down;
He had a sword of the moony silver And a dewdrop in his crown;
He hunted a bat in the still twilight For his skin so soft and brown.
But I saw King Oberon of Faëry In a wood by Merrow Down;
He had a sword of the moony silver And a dewdrop in his crown;
He hunted a bat in the still twilight For his skin so soft and brown.
And in London town there’s many a shop Will sell your heart’s desire:
But by the red roofs of Prior’s Marston, Which is in Warwickshire,
I came upon Robin Goodfellow Digging a field for hire;
I gave him a silver threepenny-bit To rest by his kitchen fire.
But by the red roofs of Prior’s Marston, Which is in Warwickshire,
I came upon Robin Goodfellow Digging a field for hire;
I gave him a silver threepenny-bit To rest by his kitchen fire.
And in London town is the Queen of England, Most royally fair to see:
But a road runs over Hollow Mill Cross In the far North Country,
Where I met the Queen of Elfland riding With a lordly company;
True Thomas rode by her left side, And she kissed her hand to me.
But a road runs over Hollow Mill Cross In the far North Country,
Where I met the Queen of Elfland riding With a lordly company;
True Thomas rode by her left side, And she kissed her hand to me.
It’s good to walk about London town When one is blithe and young:
But I sigh to think of the chalk hills Where elfin bells are rung;
My eyes are weary for red fields The Warwick woods among;
My heart is sick for the bare high fells Where my songs were first sung.
But I sigh to think of the chalk hills Where elfin bells are rung;
My eyes are weary for red fields The Warwick woods among;
My heart is sick for the bare high fells Where my songs were first sung.