Through all the pleasant meadow-side The grass grew shoulder-high, Till the shining scythes went far and wide And cut it down to dry.
These green and sweetly smelling crops They led in wagons home; And they piled them here in mountain tops For mountaineers to roam.
Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail, Mount Eagle and Mount High;— The mice that in these mountains dwell No happier are than I!
O what a joy to clamber there, O what a place for play, With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, The happy hills of hay.