The Pedlar's Song

A poem by Henry Newbolt

I tramped among the townward throng
A sultry summer's morn:
They mocked me loud, they mocked me long,
They laughed my pack to scorn.
But a likely pedlar holds his peace
Until the reckoning's told:--
Merrily I to market went, tho' songs were all my gold.

At weary noon I left the town,
I left the highway straight,
I climbed the silent, sunlit down
And stood by a castle gate.
Never yet was a house too high
When the pedlar's heart was bold:--
Merrily I to market went, tho' songs were all my gold.

A lady leaned from her window there
And asked my wares to see;
Her voice made rich the summer air,
Richer my soul in me.
She gave me only four little words,
Words of a language old:--
Merrily I from market came, for all my songs were sold.

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