12The hill pines were sighing,O’ercast and chill was the day:A mist in the valley lyingBlotted the pleasant May.But deep in the glen’s bosomSummer slept in the fireOf the odorous gorse-blossomAnd the hot scent of the brier.A ribald cuckoo clamoured,And out of the copse the strokeOf the iron axe that hammeredThe iron heart of the oak.Anon a sound appalling,As a hundred years of prideCrashed, in the silence falling:And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
12The hill pines were sighing,O’ercast and chill was the day:A mist in the valley lyingBlotted the pleasant May.But deep in the glen’s bosomSummer slept in the fireOf the odorous gorse-blossomAnd the hot scent of the brier.A ribald cuckoo clamoured,And out of the copse the strokeOf the iron axe that hammeredThe iron heart of the oak.Anon a sound appalling,As a hundred years of prideCrashed, in the silence falling:And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
The hill pines were sighing,O’ercast and chill was the day:A mist in the valley lyingBlotted the pleasant May.But deep in the glen’s bosomSummer slept in the fireOf the odorous gorse-blossomAnd the hot scent of the brier.A ribald cuckoo clamoured,And out of the copse the strokeOf the iron axe that hammeredThe iron heart of the oak.Anon a sound appalling,As a hundred years of prideCrashed, in the silence falling:And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
The hill pines were sighing,O’ercast and chill was the day:A mist in the valley lyingBlotted the pleasant May.But deep in the glen’s bosomSummer slept in the fireOf the odorous gorse-blossomAnd the hot scent of the brier.A ribald cuckoo clamoured,And out of the copse the strokeOf the iron axe that hammeredThe iron heart of the oak.Anon a sound appalling,As a hundred years of prideCrashed, in the silence falling:And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
The hill pines were sighing,O’ercast and chill was the day:A mist in the valley lyingBlotted the pleasant May.
The hill pines were sighing,
O’ercast and chill was the day:
A mist in the valley lying
Blotted the pleasant May.
But deep in the glen’s bosomSummer slept in the fireOf the odorous gorse-blossomAnd the hot scent of the brier.
But deep in the glen’s bosom
Summer slept in the fire
Of the odorous gorse-blossom
And the hot scent of the brier.
A ribald cuckoo clamoured,And out of the copse the strokeOf the iron axe that hammeredThe iron heart of the oak.
A ribald cuckoo clamoured,
And out of the copse the stroke
Of the iron axe that hammered
The iron heart of the oak.
Anon a sound appalling,As a hundred years of prideCrashed, in the silence falling:And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
Anon a sound appalling,
As a hundred years of pride
Crashed, in the silence falling:
And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.