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To the orchard, the garden, ye epicures go,
Where the smooth luscious Nectarines shine;
But afar o'er the hills do the Blackberries grow,
And the Blackberry's fruit shall be mine.
Away! o'er the hills where the breezy winds speak,
Singing hey for rich Autumn's bright eye and brown cheek!
Away o'er the mountains! where Heather-bells ring,
Away, where the tall Foxgloves wave,
Where the wild Rose we loved 'mid the flow'rets of Spring
Hath a monument left o'er her grave;
For her bright berries stand like an epitaph there,
To remind us of one so short-lived and so fair.
Away o'er the hills, to the deep dingle, where
O'er the rocks, like a tapestry, flung,
Hang broadly the Blackberry bushes, for there
No statelier tree would have sprung.
Then clinging and clambering warily down,
Beware of your footing—and eke of your gown.
The gourmand may smile at our rustic dessert,
But there's a sweet infantine thrill
Of gladness and glee that comes over my heart
In these scenes, and I feel a child still:
Oh! I would not exchange a rough Blackberry dell
For aught that in orchard or garden may dwell!
