The Weeping Folk

With lute in hand I went along the way.
To merry air I sang a merry lay.
And here and there, and round and round again,
And up and down I sang a blithe refrain—
Tira-lira, leaves are still a-shimmer,
Who will weep while leaves are still a-shimmer?

I sat and sang beside the streamlet clear,
And all the little fish came up to hear.
And all the little birds from tree to tree—
The little birds flew down to sing with me.
Tira-lira, water still runs silver,
Who will weep while water still runs silver?

And deep within the wood at Summer noon,
I set my strings to match the murmured croon
Of winds that swayed the branches in the sky,
And sang my song to their soft lullaby.
Tira-lira, winds still whisper sweetly,
Who will weep while winds still whisper sweetly?

I stood beneath the casement of the night.
When all was still, and only stars were bright—
A troubadour to silent listeners there,
I gaily tinkled out a little air.
Tira-lira, stars are still a-glitter,
Who will weep while stars are still a-glitter?

I followed where the white road led me to,
I saw the City gate. I capered through.
But lack-a-day, my merry strings were mute,
And, lack-a-day, I dropped my merry lute.
Miserere! who would hear my ditties?
These were weeping folk who lived in cities.