Wandering by the river's edge
I love to rustle through the sedge
And through the woods of reed to tear
Almost as high as bushes are
Yet, turning quick with shudder chill
As danger ever does from ill
Fear's moment ague quakes the blood
While plop the snake coils in the flood
And, hissing with a forked tongue
Across the river winds along
In coat of orange, green, and blue
Now on a willow branch I view
Grey waving to the sunny gleam
Kingfishers watch the ripple stream
For little fish that nimble bye
And in the gravel shallows lie
Eddies run before the boats
Gurgling where the fisher floats
Who takes advantage of the gale
And hoists his handkerchief for sail
On osier twigs that form a mast
While idly lies, nor wanted more
The spirit that pushed him on before
There's not a hill in all the view
Save that a forked cloud or two
Upon the verge of distance lies
And into mountains cheats the eyes
And as to trees the willows wear
Lopped heads as high as bushes are
Some taller things the distance shrouds
That may be trees or stacks or clouds
Or may be nothing; still they wear
A semblance where there's nought to spare
Among the tawny ta**elled reed
The ducks and ducklings float and feed
With head oft dabbing in the flood
They fish all day the weedy mud
And tumbler-like are bobbing there
Heels topsy turvy in the air
The geese in troops come droving up
Nibble the weeds, and take a sup
And, closely puzzled to agree
Chatter like gossips over tea
The gander with his scarlet nose
When strife's at height will interpose
And, stretching neck to that and this
With now a mutter, now a hiss
A nibble at the feathers too
A sort of "pray be quiet do,"
And turning as the matter mends
He stills them into mutual friends
Then in a sort of triumph sings
And throws the water oer his wings
Ah, could I see a spinney nigh
A puddock riding in the sky
Above the oaks with easy sail
On stilly wings and forked tail
Or meet a heath of furze in flower
I might enjoy a quiet hour
Sit down at rest, and walk at ease
And find a many things to please
But here my fancy's moods admire
The naked levels till they tire
Nor een a molehill cushion meet
To rest on when I want a seat
Here's little save the river scene
And grounds of oats in rustling green
And crowded growth of wheat and beans
That with the hope of plenty leans
And cheers the farmer's gazing brow
Who lives and triumphs in the plough
One sometimes meets a pleasant sward
Of swarthy gra**; and quickly marred
The plough soon turns it into brown
And, when again one rambles down
The path, small hillocks burning lie
And smoke beneath a burning sky
Green paddocks have but little charms
With gain the merchandise of farms
And, muse and marvel where we may
Gain mars the landscape every day
The meadow gra** turned up and copt
The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt
The hearth with fuel to supply
For rest to smoke and chatter bye
Giving the joy of home delights
The warmest mirth on coldest nights
And so for gain, that joy's repay
Change cheats the landscape every day
Nor trees nor bush about it grows
That from the hatchet can repose
And the horizon stooping smiles
Oer treeless fens of many miles
Spring comes and goes and comes again
And all is nakedness and fen