Where?

When winter nights are cold and black,

And the wind walks by

Like the battered and wild old tramp he is,

With a whistle and a sigh—

When the house is full of firelight

And shadows lean and fleet

That chase each other round and round

Till they all meet—

When father reads his paper,

And the others sew,

I sometimes feel inside myself

A little sad and low,

For then I hear their cracked, gay tunes,

And wonder where and how

All the hurdy-gurdy men

Are playing now.