My own dear country, thy remembrance comes
Like softly--flowing music on my heart;
With thy green sunny hills, and happy homes,
And cots rose--bowered, bosomed in dells apart:
The merry pealings of our village bells
Gush ever and anon upon mine ear;
And is there not a far--off sound that tells
Of many--voicèd laughter shrill and clear?
Oh! were I now with thee, to sit and play
Under the hawthorn on the slope o' th' hill,
As I was wont to do; or pluck all day
The cowslip and the flaunting daffodil,
Till shepherds whistled homeward, and the west
Folded the large sun in her crimson breast!