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 spell     In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun,     Thus far we have travelld well;     Your bridle Ill slip, your saddle ungirth,     And lay them beside this log,     For youll roll in that track of reddish earth,     And shake like a water-dog.     Upon yonder rise theres 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     Oer 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.