Fytte I
Ye Wearie Wayfarer, hys Ballad in Eight Fyttes
By Wood and Wold [A Preamble]
“Beneath the greenwood bough.”—W. Scott.
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 spellIn 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 screenO’er the weary head, to lieOn 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 againTo the memories old that, like tales fresh told,Come flitting across the brain.