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III.
Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the Wood,
And carols loud and strong.
A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee, and more than all,
Those Boys with their green Coronal,
They never hear the cry,
That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.
IV.
Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
"Down to the stump of yon old yew
I'll run with you a race."—No more—
Away the Shepherds flew.
