When Watkin shifts the burden of his cares 
And all that irked him in his bound employ, 
Once more become a vagrom-hearted boy, 
He moves to roundelays and jocund airs; 
Loitering with dusty harvestmen, he shares
Old ale and sunshine; or, with maids half-coy, 
Pays court to shadows; fools himself with joy, 
Shaking a leg at junketings and fairs. 

Sometimes, returning down his breezy miles, 
A snatch of wayward April he will bring,
Piping the daffodilly that beguiles 
Foolhardy lovers in the surge of spring. 
And then once more by lanes and field-path stiles 
Up the green world he wanders like a king.