HOP PICKING.

Ah me, how pleasant to go down

From the forlorn and faded town

To Kentish wood and fold and lane,

And breathe God's blessed air again;

Where glorious yellow corn-fields blaze

And nuts hang over woodland ways.

To pick the sweet keen-scented hops,

( See from each pole a dream-wreath drops )

To toil all day in pure clear air,

Laughter and sunshine everywhere —

With reddening woods and sweet wet soil

And well-earned rest and honest toil.