The Hayloft

Through all the pleasant meadow-side The grass grew shoulder-high, Till the shining scythes went far and wide And cut it down to dry.

These green and sweetly smelling crops They led in waggons home; And they piled them here in mountain tops For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail, Mount Eagle and Mount High;— The mice that in these mountains dwell, No happier are than I!

O what a joy to clamber there, O what a place for play, With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, The happy hills of hay.

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