He lifts his glances to the west,
Watching the kirtles, red and blue,
Which cross the meadow in his view;
And he hears, anon, the busy throng
Sing the Strawberry-Pickers’ Song:
4.
“Rifle the sweets our meadows bear,
Ere the day has reached its nooning;
While the skies are fair, and the morning air
Awakens the thrush’s tuning.