XXXIX

XXXIX

The Hayloft

Through all the pleasant meadow-side

The grass grew shoulder-high,

Till the shining scythes went far and wide

And cut it down to dry.

Those green and sweetly smelling crops

They led the waggons home;

And they piled them here in mountain tops

For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,

Mount Eagle and Mount High;--

The mice that in these mountains dwell,

No happier are than I!

Oh, what a joy to clamber there,

Oh, what a place for play,

With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,

The happy hills of hay!

XL

Farewell to the Farm

The coach is at the door at last;

The eager children, mounting fast

And kissing hands, in chorus sing:

Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

To house and garden, field and lawn,

The meadow-gates we swang upon,

To pump and stable, tree and swing,

Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

And fare you well for evermore,

O ladder at the hayloft door,

O hayloft where the cobwebs cling,

Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

Crack goes the whip, and off we go;

The trees and houses smaller grow;

Last, round the woody turn we sing:

Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!