And here’s the reason that they throve
To praise their pleasant fortune,
“We keep our beasts”—thus quoth the priests,
“In Minsterworth—that’s Mortune!”[1]
So this is the chorus we will sing,
And this is the spot we’ll drink to,
While blossom blows and Severn flows,
And Earth has mugs to clink to.
Oh! there in sleepy Summer sounds
The drowsy drone of bees, sir,