  The horse-bells come a-tinkling by the shoulder of the Down, The bell of Bow is ringing as we ride to London Town. O the breath of the wet salt marshes by Romney port is sweet, But sweeter the thyme of the uplands under the horses’ feet! It’s far afield I’m faring, to the lands I do not know, For the merchant doth not prosper save he wander to and fro, Yet though the foreign cities be stately and fair to see, It’s an English home on an English down, and my own lass for me!
IN THE DAYS OF THE GUILD |
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