This is the most bizarre poem in existence by Wordsworth. Or by, you know, anyone. Unsurprisingly, it was never printed. The Tinker Who leads a happy life If it's not the merry Tinker? Not too old to have a Wife ; Not too much a thinker : Through the meadows, over stiles, Where there are no measured miles, Day by day he finds his way Among the lonely houses : Right before the Farmer's door Down he sits ; his brows he knits ; Then his hammer he rouzes ; Batter ! batter ! batter ! He begins to clatter ; And while the work is going on Right good ale he bowses ; And, when it is done, away he is gone ; And, in his scarlet coat, With a merry note, He sings the sun to bed ; And, without making a pother, Finds some place or other For his own careless head. When in the woods the little Fowls Begin their merry-making, Again the jolly Tinker bowls Forth with small leave-taking : Through the valley, up the hill ; He can't go wrong go where he will : Tricks he has twenty, And pastimes in plenty ; He's the terror of boys in the midst of their noise ; When the market Maiden, Bringing home her lading, Hath passed him in a nook, With his outlandish look, And visage grim and sooty, Bumming, bumming, bumming, What is that that's coming ? Silly Maid as ever was ! She thinks that she and all she has Will be the Tinker's booty ; At the pretty Maiden's dread The Tinker shakes his head, Laughing, laughing, laughing, As if he would laugh himself dead. And thus, with work or none, The Tinker lives in fun, With a light soul (sic) to cover him ; And sorrow and care blow over him, Whether he's up or a-bed.