I stand alone on the hillside,
The scent of heather about;
I am so free of the city
That I leap and dance and shout.
The curlew and the lapwing,
They look for a moment at me,
Then they whoop and dive together,
For they understand my glee.
I can fancy I hear them singing
As I see them flying along—
'Here is a weary old fellow
Who is still in love with our song.
'Let us sing him our shrillest and wildest,
That it may sink in his heart,
And be with him again in the city
When he turns his face to depart.'
And over moss and moorland,
They swoop and wheel and sing,
Till the very ferns beside me
Begin to quiver and swing.
And ever, as if from dreamland,
The wind brings this echo along—
'Here is a weary old fellow,
Who is still in love with our song.'