A fine old Irish gentleman, and a Hampshire post-and-rail.
The sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the grass
That slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds I pass.
The early shadows of byre and hedge are dwindling dark below
As up the stair of the morning air on my idle wheels I go,—
Nothing to do but let her alone—she's flying herself to-day;
Unless I chuck her about a bit—there isn't a bump or sway.
So there's a bank at ninety-five—and here's a spin and a spiral dive,
And here we are again.