1

I love the heath, where spring had used to lie, —
In boyhood 'neath her aromatic showers;
Where maidens walked so beautifully shy, —
Akin to nothing but the blooming flowers.

2

The rabits from the furze would squat, and run;
The daiseys filling every open space;
And crowds of kingcups golden as the sun,
Shone on the molehills of that happy place. —