Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring,

And waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea.

Where shall we adventure, to-day that we’re afloat,

Wary of the weather, and steering by a star?

Shall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat,

To Providence, or Babylon, or off to Malabar?

6

6

Hi! but here’s a squadron a-rowing on the sea—

Cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar!

Quick, and we’ll escape them, they’re as mad as they can be,

The wicket is the harbour and the garden is the shore.

VIII

FOREIGN LANDS

Up into the cherry-tree

Up

Who should climb but little me?

I held the trunk with both my hands

And looked abroad on foreign lands.

I saw the next-door garden lie,

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