And his garden boasts the costly rose;
But mine is the keep of the mountain steep,
Where the matchless wild flower freely blows.
Let him fold his sheep, and his harvest reap—
I look down from my mountain throne;
And I choose and pick of the flock and the rick,
And what is his I can make my own.
Let the valley grow in its wealth below,
And the lord keep his high degree;
But higher am I in my liberty—