53951: An Old Song

<p dir="ltr"> I was not apprenticed nor ever dwelt in famous Lincolnshire;<br> I've served one master ill and well much more than seven year;<br> And never took up to poaching as you shall quickly find;<br> But 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year.<br> I roamed where nobody had a right but keepers and squires, and there<br> I sought for nests, wild flowers, oak sticks, and moles, both far and near.<br> And had to run from farmers, and learnt the Lincolnshire song:<br> 'Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year.'<br> I took those walks years after, talking with friend or dear,<br> Or solitary musing; but when the moon shone clear<br> I had no joy or sorrow that could not be expressed<br> By ''Tis my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year.'<br> Since then I've thrown away a chance to fight a gamekeeper;<br> And I less often trespass, and what I see or hear<br> Is mostly from the road or path by day: yet still I sing:<br> 'Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year.'<br> For if I am contented, at home or anywhere,<br> Or if I sigh for I know not what, or my heart beats with some fear,<br> It is a strange kind of delight to sing or whistle just:<br> 'Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year.'<br> And with this melody on my lips and no one by to care,<br> Indoors, or out on shiny nights or dark in open air,<br> I am for a moment made a man that sings out of his heart:<br> 'Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the season of the year.'<br></p>