Shall win a heart from me, I trow.”
His way was through the stubble-field,
Where mellow fragrance filled the air;
And from the earth’s o’erflowing yield
The scattered fruits lay ripe and fair.
There women laboured in the sun,
Uncouthly clad, and sun-embrowned,
The old, the weak, the little one,
Upon the stony furrowed ground.
Sir Self laughed softly as he went.