And telling him to mind that precious bull—
He's fresh from town, poor lad, and does not know
What danger lurks amid the beautiful;
Here a tall oak its branches flingeth out,
As if it said—"I am of trees the king!"
And there an aged hawthorn spreads about
Its crooked arms—a queer misshapen thing;
Far off you see a mill—more trees—some houses—
Look at this frisking colt, why what a kicker!—
Feathers and parasols! here come the spouses