The Schoolmaster Abroad With His Son.

O WHAT harper could worthily harp it, Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold (Look out wold) with its wonderful carpet Of emerald, purple, and gold! Look well at it—also look sharp, it Is getting so cold. The purple is heather (erica); The yellow, gorse—call’d sometimes “whin.” Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a Green beetle as if on a pin. You may roll in it, if you would like a Few holes in your skin. You wouldn’t? Then think of how kind you Should be to the insects who crave Your compassion—and then, look behind you At you barley-ears! Don’t they look brave As they undulate—(undulate, mind you, From unda, a wave). The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it Sounds here—(on account of our height)! And this hillock itself—who could paint it, With its changes of shadow and light? Is it not—(never, Eddy, say “ain’t it”)— A marvellous sight? Then yon desolate eerie morasses, The haunts of the snipe and the hern— (I shall question the two upper classes On aquatiles, when we return)— Why, I see on them absolute masses Of filix or fern. How it interests e’en a beginner (Or tiro) like dear little Ned! Is he listening? As I am a sinner He’s asleep—he is wagging his head. Wake up! I’ll go home to my dinner, And you to your bed. The boundless ineffable prairie; The splendour of mountain and lake With their hues that seem ever to vary; The mighty pine-forests which shake In the wind, and in which the unwary May tread on a snake; And this wold with its heathery garment— Are themes undeniably great. But—although there is not any harm in’t— It’s perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint Of seven or eight.