Beneath the greenwood bough. -- W. Scott.
Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows, Though laden with faint perfume,'Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows, The scent of the wattle bloom.Two-thirds of our journey at least are done, Old horse! let us take a spellIn the shade from the glare of the noon-day sun, Thus far we have travell'd well;Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle ungirth, And lay them beside this log,For you'll roll in that track of reddish earth, And shake like a water-dog.
Upon yonder rise there's a clump of trees -- Their shadows look cool and broad --You can crop the grass as fast as you please, While I stretch my limbs on the sward;'Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen O'er the weary head, to lieOn the mossy carpet of emerald green, 'Neath the vault of the azure sky;Thus all alone by the wood and wold, I yield myself once againTo the memories old that, like tales fresh told, Come flitting across the brain.
