Lifts to eternal summer its shingled wall.
From out a bower made musical with frogs,
Who chant their wild lays in the neighboring bogs,
At noon we’d sit beneath the arching vine,
And gather grapes to make our winter wine;
And when night came we’d guess what star
Should next attract us to the op—era;
And then—
Jul. Oh, pshaw! give o’er,
Your yellow-covered cottage is a bore;