Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,
And from the old “manse o’er the lea”
Flies slow the cawing crow.
(In England ’twere a rook!)
The last faint golden beams of day
Still glow on cottage panes,
And on their lingering homeward way
Walk weary laboring men.
(Oh, that we had swains!)