Of that good fellowship to be;

Nor sought more honour than to share

The sower’s toil, the shepherd’s care.

But most we loved the merry ring

Of whetted scythes, the rhythmic swing

Of mowers, and with fork and rake

All day to follow in their wake;

And homeward in the eventide

On the piled waggon load to ride,

While, half asleep amid the hay,

Dim fields we saw and uplands grey,{6}

{6}

And heard beneath our swaying load

The rumbling wheel along the road.

No need had we the world to roam

To find new shores, for round our home

Our undiscovered lands arose

In autumn mists, in winter snows.

On summer nights in whispering trees

We heard the wash of Indian seas,

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