The hedges are green with the spring,
The sun is on meadow and lea,
The little birds merrily sing,
And the blossom is sweet on the tree.
I have wandered for many a mile—
All around is a feast for the eye;
So I’ll whittle a stick on this stile,
And I’ll grin as the girls go by.
I am far from the turmoil of town;
Here is rest in this Devonshire lane—
Here is rest from the world’s cruel frown,
Here is rest from the passion and pain.
Here, forgetting my woes for awhile,
I will sit ’neath the blue southern sky,
And whittle a stick on the stile,
And grin as the girls go by.
Sing on, little bird on the tree;
Little sunbeam, dance on and be gay;
Oh, the future is nothing to me!
And, Memory, please go and play.
Here, with nothing my temper to rile,
I would like to remain till I die;
And whittle a stick on the stile,
And grin as the girls go by.