native Maker, and be read by my own countryfolk in our own dying language: an ambition surely rather of the heart than of the head, so restricted as it is in prospect of endurance, so parochial in bounds of space. ENVOY NO, little book, and wish to all Go Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall, A bin of wine, a spice of wit, A house with lawns enclosing it, A SONG OF THE ROAD ΤΑ walked with willing foot, And aye the gauger played the flute; And what should Master Gauger play But Over the hills and far away? Whene'er I buckle on my pack You go with me the self-same way For who would gravely set his face |