Is it where the lordling sits in his pride,
’Mid wealth that to me has been denied?
Is it where the flocks on the black hills graze,
Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays?
Or the hare runs wild on every hand,
Is it there, dear friend, that better land?
Not there, not there, my man.
Is it far away in some distant spot,
The promised parcel of garden plot
Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees,