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206 show in such variety of colour, and when the sun shines the sense of exhilaration is beyond restraint.

To all lovers of Dartmoor I dedicate the song with which I conclude this chapter.

THE SONG OF THE MOOR.

'T is merry in the spring time, 'Tis blithe on Dartimoor, Where every man is equal, For every man is poor. I do what I 'm a minded, And none will say me nay, I go where I 'm inclined, On all sides—right of way.

O the merry Dartimoor, O the bonny Dartimoor, I would not be where I 'm not free As I am upon the moor.

'T is merry in the summer, When furze be flowering sweet; The bees about it humming, In honey bathe their feet. The plover and the peewit, How cheerily they pipe, And underfoot the whortle Is turning blue and ripe. O the merry Dartimoor, etc.

'T is merry in the autumn, When snipe and cock appear, And never see a keeper To say, No shooting here! We stack the peat for fuel, We ask no better fire, And never pay a farden For all that we require. O the merry Dartimoor, etc.