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!

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