And may hanker for primitive ways. His father, mother, sister, friends Yearn for his pleasing fellowship, Wherefrom we fully appreciate

That your Graces will be entranced By his comely discourse and person Who may even begin to think Yours is the world he wishes to live;

And yet, discerning as you are, You may come to tire of human style In horsehair drawn across catgut, So unlike what it has been our luck

To catch, on rare evenings, floating across The stony mist, faint sound of, your Ingenious music in solemn revels At respectful distance from your fort.

His dancing figures may be strange To you as glimpses of yours are to us, So might there perhaps come a day When your Reverends, now entertained

By your curious courtier, feel surfeit Of his society and, in your noble tact, Enquire whether he is wholly content To be so away from his own music?

May your gentle natures pardon Laughable clumsiness of form In little folk approaching you thus, Our being illiterate of any court

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