There never was any music 
In the golden throat of a bird, 
More fine and clear than the piping 
That in dreams I heard 
Cry through the Heart Lake's rushes, 
And falter and fade away, 
Like odours of thyme one crushes 
In the heat of the day. 

There never was any piping 
So sweet and tender and gay, 
It came like the wind, and lightly 
It blew away — 
It laughed and it grew not weary, 
It sighed and was sweeter yet, 
It sang for the hope of Eri 
And her heavy fret. 

There never was any piping 
So merry and none so sad, 
For it sang of a far green island 
Where, scarlet-clad, 
All under the druid quicken, 
Wild dancers gather and go, 
And under the oaks, unstricken, 
Feeds Saav, the doe. 

And when silence took the piping, 
"It's O to be there," I cried, 
"To dance with no thought of grieving 
For joy that died — 
To dance, and be never weary 
For night or day, 
With the kindliest folk of Eri 
Till the dew's away. 
Sweet, sweet is the twilight dancing, 
Not sweet is the homespun day." 
But the dawn through the rushes glancing 
Drove my dream away. 

The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs;
What though you're awkward at the trade,
There's time enough to learn,—
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do
But just to walk about;
So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends,—
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'n't be lazy here,—
And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear,—
He's lost them both,—don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,
But poke him in the further eye,
That is n't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;
It's pretty sport,—suppose we take
A round or two for fun!
If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own!