“Beneath the greenwood bough.”
- W. Scott.
Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows,
Though laden with faint perfume,
’Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows,
The scent of the wattle bloom.
Two-thirds of our journey at least are done,
Old horse! let us take a spell
In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun,
Thus far we have travell’d well;
Your bridle I’ll slip, your saddle ungirth,
And lay them beside this log,
For you’ll roll in that track of reddish earth,
And shake like a water-dog.
Upon yonder rise there’s a clump of trees,
Their shadows look cool and broad,
You can crop the grass as fast as you please,
While I stretch my limbs on the sward;
’Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen
O’er the weary head, to lie
On the mossy carpet of emerald green,
’Neath the vault of the azure sky;
Thus all alone by the wood and wold,
I yield myself once again
To the memories old that, like tales fresh told,
Come flitting across the brain.