THOUGH singing but the shy and sweet
Untrod by multitudes of feet,
Songs bounded by the brook and wheat,
I have not failed in this,
The only lure my woodland note,
To win all England’s whitest throat!
O bards in gold and fire who wrote,
Be yours all other bliss!
More verses by Norman Rowland Gale
- Most Anglers Are Very Humane
- A Dead Friend
- Song - Wait But A Little While
- Cricket On The Hearth
- An Orchard Dance