I Tramped Among The Townward Throng A Sultry Summer'S Morn: They Mocked Me Loud, They Mocked Me Long, They Laughed My Pack To Scorn. But A Likely Pedlar Holds His Peace Until The Reckoning'S Told:-- Merrily I To Market Went, Tho' Songs Were All My Gold. At Weary Noon I Left The Town, I Left The Highway Straight, I Climbed The Silent, Sunlit Down And Stood By A Castle Gate. Never Yet Was A House Too High When The Pedlar'S Heart Was Bold:-- Merrily I To Market Went, Tho' Songs Were All My Gold. A Lady Leaned From Her Window There And Asked My Wares To See; Her Voice Made Rich The Summer Air, Richer My Soul In Me. She Gave Me Only Four Little Words, Words Of A Language Old:-- Merrily I From Market Came, For All My Songs Were Sold.