The hill pines were sighing

The hill pines were sighing,

O'ercast and chill was the day:

A mist in the valley lying

Blotted the pleasant May.

But deep in the glen's bosom

Summer slept in the fire

Of the odorous gorse-blossom

And the hot scent of the brier.

A ribald cuckoo clamoured,

And out of the copse the stroke

Of the iron axe that hammered

The iron heart of the oak.