| The Hayloft |
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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. |
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Those green and sweetly smelling crops They led the waggons home; And they piled them here in mountain tops For mountaineers to roam. |
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Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail, Mount Eagle and Mount High;-- The mice that in these mountains dwell, No happier are than I! |
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Oh, what a joy to clamber there, Oh, what a place for play, With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, The happy hills of hay! |
| Robert Louis Stevenson |
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| Farewell to the Farm |
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The coach is at the door at last; The eager children, mounting fast And kissing hands, in chorus sing: Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! |
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To house and garden, field and lawn, The meadow-gates we swang upon, To pump and stable, tree and swing, Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! |
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And fare you well for evermore, O ladder at the hayloft door, O hayloft where the cobwebs cling, Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! |
| Crack goes the whip, and off we go; The trees and houses smaller grow; Last, round the woody turn we sing: Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! |
| Robert Louis Stevenson |