The Hayloft

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.

Those green and sweetly smelling crops

They led in waggons home;

And they piled them here in mountain tops

For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,

Mount Eagle and Mount High;—

The mice that in these mountains dwell,

No happier are than I!

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!