Classic Poem

Up the dale and down the bourne,
O'er the meadow swift we fly,
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.

By the grassy-fringéd river,
Thro' the murmuring reeds we sweep,
Mid the lily leaves we quiver,
To their very hearts we creep

Now the maiden-rose is blushing
At the wanton things we say,
Whilst aside her cheek we're rushing
Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming groves we rustle
Kissing every bud we pass,
As we did it in the bustle
Scarcely knowing how it was!

Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath to roam,
Whirling round about the fountain
Till its little breakers foam.

Bending down the weeping willows
While our vesper hymn we sigh;
Then into our rosy pillows
On our weary wings we hie.

Then of idle hours dreaming
Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages deeming
Till we're at our play again!