 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
245
A PASTORAL.
O, Tityrus, as you sit beneath
The shade of yonder budding bay,
And on the wierd, profound trombone,
Pip'st thou thy sweet bucolic lay,
Behold the Berkshire lambs at play;
The shade of yonder budding bay,
And on the wierd, profound trombone,
Pip'st thou thy sweet bucolic lay,
Behold the Berkshire lambs at play;
Behold the Southdown cattle feed,
And gaze upon the browsing swine,
And calmly view the Durham steed
Cavorting 'mongst the maiden kine,
Ah, would that such a lot were mine!
And gaze upon the browsing swine,
And calmly view the Durham steed
Cavorting 'mongst the maiden kine,
Ah, would that such a lot were mine!
No cares, no sorrows, ills nor woes
Consume thy soul as through the day
Thou pip'st upon thy mild trombone
The shepherd's sweet ecstatic lay,
And watch the grazing herds at play.
Consume thy soul as through the day
Thou pip'st upon thy mild trombone
The shepherd's sweet ecstatic lay,
And watch the grazing herds at play.
Ah, would, dear Tityrus, that I,
A poet, not a shepherd born,
Could rest supine beneath the shade
And pipe upon the shepherd's horn,
And keep the cattle from the corn.
A poet, not a shepherd born,
Could rest supine beneath the shade
And pipe upon the shepherd's horn,
And keep the cattle from the corn.
February 13th, 1882.
| A little book of tribune verse | |