From the turnips as I pass by,
And the partridge hiding her head in a bush,
For her young ones cannot fly.
I like these things, and I like to ride
When all the world is in bed,
To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide,
And where the sun grows red.
The beagles at my horse heels trot,
In silence after me;
There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,