The heath-cock has forsook his nest,
And mounted on the morning gale;
While bursting on my raptured eyes,
Lakes, hills, and woods, distinctly rise.
And there in mountain-privacy
My father's rustic cot appears,
The haunts of happy infancy,
The fields my childish sport endears;
Where victor of each game I stood,
And climb'd the tree, or stemm'd the flood: