| The Travelling Tragition |
| Shadow cloak swift as a swallow, Pantaloon down in the hollow, Dancing, his voice like a cloud In the death of my night. Awful eyes, black Persian beggar, Harlequinesque, hair plaited heather, Stepping so lightly, A sprite in the house of my sight. 0 m'dear, travelling Tragition, It's sky clear, you're a gift from the fair folk. |