The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed
     Is purple, and orange, and gray: 
     Away, and away, we’ll bound, old hound,
     Over the hills and away.

     Juggling Jerry

     I

     Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: 
     By the old hedge-side we’ll halt a stage. 
     It’s nigh my last above the daisies: 
     My next leaf ’ll be man’s blank page. 
     Yes, my old girl! and it’s no use crying: 
     Juggler, constable, king, must bow. 
     One that outjuggles all’s been spying
     Long to have me, and he has me now.

     II

     We’ve travelled times to this old common: 
     Often we’ve hung our pots in the gorse. 
     We’ve had a stirring life, old woman! 
     You, and I, and the old grey horse. 
     Races, and fairs, and royal occasions,
     Found us coming to their call: 
     Now they’ll miss us at our stations: 
     There’s a Juggler outjuggles all!

     III

     Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! 
     Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. 
     Easy to think that grieving’s folly,
     When the hand’s firm as driven stakes! 
     Ay, when we’re strong, and braced, and manful,
     Life’s a sweet fiddle:  but we’re a batch
     Born to become the Great Juggler’s han’ful: 
     Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.

     IV

     Here’s where the lads of the village cricket: 
     I was a lad not wide from here: 
     Couldn’t I whip off the bail from the wicket? 
     Like an old world those days appear! 
     Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house —
     I know them! 
     They are old friends of my halts, and seem,
     Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: 
     Juggling don’t hinder the heart’s esteem.

     V

     Juggling’s no sin, for we must have victual: 
     Nature allows us to bait for the fool. 
     Holding one’s own makes us juggle no little;
     But, to increase it, hard juggling’s the rule. 
     You that are sneering at my profession,
     Haven’t you juggled a vast amount? 
     There’s the Prime Minister, in one Session,
     Juggles more games than my sins ’ll count.

     VI

     I’ve murdered insects with mock thunder: 
     Conscience, for that, in men don’t quail. 
     I’ve made bread from the bump of wonder: 
     That’s my business, and there’s my tale. 
     Fashion and rank all praised the professor: 
     Ay! and I’ve had my smile from the Queen: 
     Bravo, Jerry! she meant:  God bless her! 
     Ain’t this a sermon on that scene?

     VII