Willie, Willie, merry piper,
Wand'rer too from clime to clime,
Tell me if thy fruit is riper,
Sweeter than my rhime.
Hast thou pluckt a golden apple,
I have never tasted yet?
Hast thou seen a pearly dapple,
Finer skies than mine have set?
Hast thou heard a music sweeter,
Than my wildest dreams intone?
Hast thou found a joy completer,
Than a pleasure I have known?
Willie, Willie, wand'ring ever,
Whither wend thy wayward feet?
Farther still must we dissever,
Only thus again to meet?
Wander on I would not stay thee--
Fain were I a wand'rer too.
Drinking where the founts delay thee,
Thirsting all thy deserts through.
What! though little thou hast gathered,
Golden wealth is that I ween.
What! though nothing thou hast fathered,
Careless fancies are thy yean.
All thy trees mayhap are fruitless;
All thy hopes be ships afar,
All thy plans mayhap are bootless,--
Still thou hast the eastern star.
I, in peace and plenty, yearning,
Yearning for thy wand'rer's crust
Weary, aching, burning, burning,
Fevered failure of the wander-lust.
Wander on, mayhap I'll meet thee,
Wand'ring in the waning glow
Rhiming still for joy to greet thee,
Piping on thy piccolo.