Softly humming a song,
Till he finally reached the old oak on the hill.
“He threw himself down on the grass in the shade,
And complacently thought ‘What a picture he made!’
(Of his black and white face,
And his form full of grace,
He thought just a trifle too much, I’m afraid.)
“He sat for a while much admiring the scene,
For the hedges, the trees, and the grass looked so green,
While the rippling rill,