The Joyous Wanderer

I go by road, I go by street—
Lira, la, la!
O white high roads, ye know my feet!
A loaf I carry and, all told,
Three broad bits of lucky gold—
Lira, la, la!
And oh, within my flowering heart,
(Sing, dear nightingale!) is my Sweet.

A poor man met me and begged for bread—
Lira, la, la!
"Brother, take all the loaf," I said,
I shall but go with lighter cheer—
Lira, la, la!
And oh within my flowering heart
(Sing, sweet nightingale!) is my Dear.

A thief I met on the lonely way—
Lira, la, la!
He took my gold; I cried to him, "Stay!
And take my pocket and make an end."
Lira, la, la!
And oh within my flowering heart
(Sing, soft nightingale!) is my Friend.

Now on the plain I have met with death—
Lira, la, la!
My bread is gone, my gold, my breath.
But oh this heart is not afraid—
Lira, la, la!
For oh, within this lonely heart
(Sing, sad nightingale!) is my Maid.