Hear the sledges with the bells,
Bells fashioned of a well-known metal.

Up from the meadows rich with a prominent kind of grain,
Clear in the cool September morn.


The clustered spires of a small Southern town stand,
Green walled by the hills of a famous state below Mason and Dixon's line.


When as in a certain textile fabric my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her feminine apparel.