And wander wild again o’er field and fell;
For here we stay not long.
Pre. What! march again?
Cruz. Aye, with all speed. I hate the crowded town!
I cannot breathe, shut up within its gates!
Air—I want air—and sunshine—and blue sky,
The feeling of the breeze upon my face—
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet,
And no walls but the far-off mountain tops.
Then I am free and strong—once more myself: