show in such variety of colour, and when the sun shines the sense of exhilaration is beyond restraint.
To all lovers of Dartmoor I dedicate the song with which I conclude this chapter.
THE SONG OF THE MOOR.
'T is merry in the spring time,
'Tis blithe on Dartimoor,
Where every man is equal,
For every man is poor.
I do what I 'm a minded,
And none will say me nay,
I go where I 'm inclined,
On all sides—right of way.
O the merry Dartimoor,
O the bonny Dartimoor,
I would not be where I 'm not free
As I am upon the moor.
'T is merry in the summer,
When furze be flowering sweet;
The bees about it humming,
In honey bathe their feet.
The plover and the peewit,
How cheerily they pipe,
And underfoot the whortle
Is turning blue and ripe.
O the merry Dartimoor, etc.
'T is merry in the autumn,
When snipe and cock appear,
And never see a keeper
To say, No shooting here!
We stack the peat for fuel,
We ask no better fire,
And never pay a farden
For all that we require.
O the merry Dartimoor, etc.
