Where the pine first strikes its root,
On the loud Arc’s savage shore;
Well you guessed your labour o’er,
And rightly chose the stable door;
With eye undimm’d, and limbs unworn,
You rolled your weariness away.
Your hunger scarce appeased at morn,
For still you struck your foot to say,
What sweetness has the lowland corn,
What fragrance has the mountain hay!