  THE hedges are green with the spring, The sun is on meadow and lea, The little birds merrily sing, And the blossom is sweet on the tree. I have wandered for many a mile— All around is a feast for the eye; So I’ll whittle a stick on this stile, And I’ll grin as the girls go by. I am far from the turmoil of town; Here is rest in this Devonshire lane— Here is rest from the world’s cruel frown, Here is rest from the passion and pain. Here, forgetting my woes for awhile, I will sit ’neath the blue southern sky, And whittle a stick on the stile, And grin as the girls go by. Sing on, little bird on the tree; Little sunbeam, dance on and be gay; Oh, the future is nothing to me! And, Memory, please go and play. Here, with nothing my temper to rile, I would like to remain till I die; And whittle a stick on the stile, And grin as the girls go by. |
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