A lark flew up from the ploughlands.
In ways of singing a fine tune,
that bird had it nailed,
so thought a pedlar,
halted to listen to its cries,
that any who tries to play true
on pipes or whistle
would have to bow his head humbly,
acknowledge he’d failed.

To hover over the ploughlands,
the lark kept ascending the air,
continued to rise,
watched by the pedlar,
who liked the swans on the water,
the horse that won at the races,
heather and thistle,
but none could compare with that bird
in his ears and eyes.

Unsure he would come here again,
this flat land had little shelter
from the wind and rain.
Few coins for his wares
he found from the farms and hamlets,
he was less poor than a pauper,
most men were richer,
still he felt a knight of the shires,
he did not complain.

The lark flew down to the ploughlands,
lost among furrows, ceased its cries,
of it was no sign.
The pedlar walked on,
with his heart warmed, his soul lifted,
headed for bed in a barn loft,
sleep until cock crow.
In life he knew who was master,
and who drew the line.


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