THE JOY OF THE HILLS.[15]

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride;

I have found my life and am satisfied.

Onward I ride in the blowing oats,

Checking the field lark’s rippling notes—

Lightly I sweep from steep to steep;

O’er my head through branches high

Come glimpses of deep blue sky;

The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks:

Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;