Which warms in winter-time the cottage
And cooks the oatmeal or the pottage;
How now and then a troop passed by,
Fox-hunting, riding gallantly—
Fair ladies and fine gentlemen,
Who dashed through field, and wood, and glen—
Nor hedge, nor fence, nor stream could stay
Their fiery steeds upon the way;
How on a hill-side near her home
There stands a ruin, ivy-grown,