And hear the pee-wit’s mournful song:
But the stranger comes—Oh, painful proof—
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof!
“There is the orchard—the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run,
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger’s children are swinging there!
“There bubbles the shady spring below,