And soaring crane and crow—
And misty woods—and fields afar—
Neat villages and towns—
Blest herds and flocks no beast can mar,
That nibble sunny downs.
Oh! that is, sure, a pleasant thing,
And bathes the soul in joy;
And many a grief-worn man 'twould bring,
To be once more a boy.
'Tis sweet to rove, at twilight dim,