The Elfin Organ-Grinder

He travels the winding roads of Elfland

And everywhere he goes,

There's a rush of little green hurrying bodies

And the scuffle of curly toes,

Treading the dew-bright grass in circles

To a tune more wild and gay

Than ever thrush or oriole sang

To his mate in the woods of May.

His eyes shine brighter than chips of stars,

His brown arms never tire,

He takes no coppers, for joy is all

An elf may ask in hire.

And human children, if they hear

That organ-grinder play,

Will ever after have feet that dance

And hearts that are always gay.