And a pleasing softness lends.
Homeward now the aged plough-boys
Wing their way o’er hill and dale,
And the laughter-loving cow goes
Tripping lightly down the vale.
Gentle zephyrs’ ink-stained fingers
Point the hour-hand of the clock,
There the warbling sheep-fold lingers—
Save it from the cruel hawk!
Thus excoriate the hours,