’Mong the ferns close by the stream,)—
How he loves the bread-and-cream:
His mother ’spies his pretty glances,
As she, with him—her husband—dances.
I’ve been again upon that rock—
A cliff, whereon the ravens flock,
Listen’d to the Dart, below;
Seen the little rapids flow:
But I, alas! saw not those trees
Which made such music in the breeze.