The yellow lambtoe I have often got,
Sweet creeping o'er the banks in summer-time,
And totter-grass, in many a trembling knot;
And robb'd the molehill of its bed of thyme:
And oft with anxious feelings would I climb
The waving willow-row, a stick to trim,
To reach the water-lily's tempting flower
That on the surface of the pool did swim:
I've stretch'd, and tried vain schemes for many an hour;
And scrambled up the hawthorn's prickly bower,
For ramping woodbines and blue bitter-sweet.
Still Summer blooms, these flowers appear again;
But, ah, the question's useless to repeat,
When will the feelings come I witness'd then?