XXXIX

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.