HOP PICKING.

Ah me, how pleasant to go down From the forlorn and faded town To Kentish wood and fold and lane, And breathe God's blessed air again; Where glorious yellow corn-fields blaze And nuts hang over woodland ways.

To pick the sweet keen-scented hops, (See from each pole a dream-wreath drops) To toil all day in pure clear air, Laughter and sunshine everywhere— With reddening woods and sweet wet soil And well-earned rest and honest toil.