Ii

There is a pipe that plays to me From tree to tree: A bramble pipe an elfin holds To golden lips in berry brakes, And, swinging o’er the elder wolds, A flickering music makes:-- “Come over! Come over The new-mown clover! Come over the fresh-cut hay! Where, there by the berries, With cheeks like cherries, And locks with which the warm wind merries, Brown girls are hilling the hay, All day! Come over the fields and away!-- Come over! Come over!”