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 the 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!