ON WHINNEY MOOR By BLANCHE WINDER

On the bracken hill

Whinney Moor way

You may see a strange sight

Any time o’ day.

A green tall man

With a crooked knee

Goes trot-trot-trot

Unceasingly.

209He lifts each foot

High on the hill,

He steps and he steps,

Yet he stays quite still.

From his either ear

A ring hangs down

In a silver disc

Like a big half-crown.

Long ribbons float

Round his crooked knee

Green as the leaves

Of an alder-tree.

Green are his breeches,

Green is his hat,

With a great gold buckle

Wide and flat.

His puffing breath

And his quick loud feet

Sound like a farmer

Threshing wheat.

On a bending stalk

A pipit stares

And forgets to sing.

The rough brown hares

That squat so flat

In the long deep grass

Wonder why he takes

Such a while to pass.

But the still grey sheep,

That look like stones,

Never lift a head

210From the sunburnt downs

As this green tall man,

With the crooked knee,

Goes trot-trot-trot

Unceasingly.

211His goblin feet

As they strike the ground

Are turning the big world

Round and round!

Round goes Stony Hill

And wide Merrow Down,

Stately Windsor Castle

Noisy London town!

Round goes England

From Deeside to Penzance,

Round goes Scotland

And round goes France,

Turned and turned

As fast as can be

By the green tall man

With the crooked knee

And the goblin feet

You may see any day

You happen to pass

Whinney Moor way.

The rough brown hares That squat so flat.

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