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DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE.
Dear is my little native vale.
The ring-dove builds and warbles there,
Close by my cot ⟨she⟩ tells her tale,
To every passing villager?
The squirrel leaps fron tree to tree,
And shells his nuts as liberty.
In orange groves, and ⟨myrtle⟩ bow'rs,
That breath a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy footed hours
With my love'd lute's romantic sound.
Or crowns of living ⟨laurel⟩ weave
For those that win the ⟨race⟩ at eve,
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ⟨ballot⟩ danc'd at twilight glade,
The ⟨Canzonet⟩ and ⟨roundelay⟩,
Sung in the silent greenwood ⟨shade⟩:
These simple joys, that ⟨never⟩ fail,
Shall ⟨bind me to my native vale⟩,
