So I was whipp'd and sent to bed,
That the rest might learn to fear,
And duly keep the good dame's rules
For the sequel of the year;
And chase no more gay butterflies,
Or their little wings to tear:
Still! 'tis my delight, when the sun shines bright,
52. The Swallow's Flight.
Swallow, that on rapid wing
Sweep'st along in sportive ring,
Here and there, and low and high,
Chasing keen the painted fly;
Swallow, let me fly with thee.
First from England's southern shore
'Cross the Channel we would soar;
Then with daring flight advance
To the plains of uprightly France:—
Swallow, let me fly with thee.
Where on verdant banks of Loire
Playful sport the feather'd choir,
Or where Bourdeaux skirts the side
Of Garonne's majestic tide,
I would skim away with thee.
Next o'er tow'ring Pyrenees,
Myrtb groves and orange-trees,
To the hilly wild domain,
Where are fed the flocks of Spain,
I would skim away with thee.
