But on the moors it dwelleth free,
Like a fearless mountain child;
With a rosy cheek, a lightsome look,
And a spirit strong and wild.
In autumn, all among the swamps
And marshes soft and wet,
Come troops of poor hill-children
The ripened fruit to get.
The bushes all in water grow,
In those small pools, that lie
In scores among the turfy knolls
On mountains broad and high.
And there the peasant children come
To pull the Cranberries red,
Where bold and booted sporting squires
Would scarcely dare to tread.
They only shoot the poor wild birds,
And chase the timid hare,
For their diversion; they can live
In luxury, without care.
But these poor peasant-children’s lot
Is full of human wo,
And hungry, thinly clad, and cold,
They o’er the mountains go;
With feet, that shoes have never known,
And legs all blue and bare,
And yet, so light are they of heart,
You’ll hear them laughing there.
Such laughter makes my very heart
Leap up with joy to hear,
It tells that even poverty
Is not entirely drear.
It telleth—what I ever think,
That God is good indeed;
And that he suiteth, in us all,
Our spirit to our need.
Think ye—if these poor peasants were
All discontent and sour—
If they in frowns and murmurings
Spent every wretched hour:—