O, what a pleasure ’t is to hear
The cricket’s cheerful, piercing cry!
And who can tell the melody
His pipe affords the shepherd’s ear?
Thou know’st what luxury ’t is to drink,
As shepherds do, when worn with heat,
From the still fount, its waters sweet,
With lips that gently touch their brink;
Or else, where, hurrying on, they rush
And frolic down their pebbly bed,