The Informal Courtier

Courtier, in unpretending dress

Of all-excelling idleness,

No liegeman struts that can outshine

Me, in this good old garb of mine.

Young whirlwinds always ask me where

They turn round dances in the air;

And I am masker on the green

When firefly lanterns light the scene.

The squirrel, sharp in tooth and eye,

Salutes me as I saunter by;

Yes, ere the robin starts her nest

She asks which bough I think the best.

Oft am I hid with bats at noon,

Abroad with owls at rise of moon;

With wary hare and sleeky mole

I am the same congenial soul.

I take the breezes by the arm,

And tramp at will my neighbor's farm;

Herself I serve, without a care,

Her Highness of the Open Air.