Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . st resource, Have drawn better men than you or me, Where the Red Lion swings from the old oak-tree. Theres a brimming water-trough, cool and clear, Where the Eed Lion swings from the old oak-tree; And a crib of sweet hay standing near, That the resting driver, over his beer, May watch his team, with loosened gear, Enjoying themselves as much as he, Where the Red Lion swings from the old oak-tree. The time has been, eer railways began, When the Red Lion swung from a stout oak-tree, That whereso highway or byway ran, Such hostelries greeted the way
Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . st resource, Have drawn better men than you or me, Where the Red Lion swings from the old oak-tree. Theres a brimming water-trough, cool and clear, Where the Eed Lion swings from the old oak-tree; And a crib of sweet hay standing near, That the resting driver, over his beer, May watch his team, with loosened gear, Enjoying themselves as much as he, Where the Red Lion swings from the old oak-tree. The time has been, eer railways began, When the Red Lion swung from a stout oak-tree, That whereso highway or byway ran, Such hostelries greeted the wayfaring man To a well-filled trencher and well-frothed can, And all were welcome as welcome could be Where the Red Lion swung from the stout oak-tree. But now we are ruled by the iron-ways, Where no Red Lion swings from its tree; At the Station Hotel the traveller stays, And few are the pence and scanty the praise That come to the landlord of other days, All bare and bowed as the scathed limbs be Where the Red Lion swings from the old 11 XII. THE SMITHY. Early in the summer morning, While tis fresh and cool,Ere the village clock gives warning Of the hour for school,Satchel-bearing groups are gathered Bound the smithy shed,Peeping where the great horse tethered, Waits until his shoes are sped;And the merry blacksmith plies His sturdy strength to wondering eyesHinging, ringing, bravely ringing, Up and down his hammer swinging,Eiery jets about him flinging. There at noon the maiden lingers, There, perchance, will stop—While their needle-work her fingers All unheeding drop ;So she lingers and she watches Sparks each other chase,Till a cheery glance she catches Erom a swart and smiling thoughts the hammer lighten, Loving looks the smithy brighten,As the anvil ringing, ringing, Answers to the hammers swinging,Eiery jets about it flinging. There at pleasant hours of even, Sober, cool, and grey,When the church-clock striking seven, Grives the green to play,White
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Keywords: ., bookauthordalzielgeorge18151902, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1860
