The Old Coach Road

There's hardly a wheel rut left to show

The way the coach road used to go.

Trees straddle it and berries grow

Where coaches rumbled long ago,

And horses' hoofs struck sparks of light,

Many a frosty winter night.

Here gypsy faces, lean and tan,

Peered from some lumbering caravan,

Or peddlers passed with bulging packs

And sheep with sun aslant their backs.

Now, only berry pickers push

Their way through thorn and elder bush—

But sometimes of a night, they say,

Wheels have been heard to pass that way.