Upon my sunny shores to roam;—
With me they play their artless pranks,
And gather flowers along my banks;—
Sweet flowers that shun thy gloomy shade,
And hither come to ask my aid.
The poet loves my 'simple song';—
With me he often tarries long;
He tells me that he wanders here,
To catch some new and bright idea,
Which makes his tuneful numbers roll,