And it glowed with a flowery red;
But the meadows had never a grass-blade,
And the brooklet—it slept in its bed;
And it lay without sparkle or murmur,
Nor reflected the blue of the skies.
But the music was made by the shepherd,
And the sparkle was all in his eyes.
Oh, he sang like a bird in the summer!
And, if sometimes you fancied a bleat,
That, too, was the voice of the shepherd,