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35
ARCADIA.
A glorious day among the Ochil hills!Blue April skies above; and all about
Green primrose banks that slope to where the trout
In silver glance athwart the gleaming rills,
And wagtails bob, and ouzels wet their bills;
And linnets in the heather in and out
Weaving sweet music; and the shepherd's shout;
And the fine fragrance which the birk distils:
Arcadia! and ten hours of it! But stay,
There was no clock in Arden; let me see;
Suppose we borrow Milton's words, and say—
From morn till dewy eve. And who were we?
Why, Jack and I. Angling: we ‘whipt’ all day.
Well, I got none, but Jack was good for three!
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