The meadows are yours—the hedge-row and brook,
You may bathe in their dews at morn;
By the aged sea you may sound your shells,
On the mountain erect your horn;
The fruits and the flowers are your rightful dowers,
Then why—in the name of wonder—
Should my six pea-rows be the only cause
To excite your midnight plunder?
I have never disturbed your slender shells,
You have hung round my aged walk;