Fytte I

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 spell

In the shade from the glare of the noonday 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 lie

On 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 again

To the memories old that, like tales fresh told,

Come flitting across the brain.