Robert Louis Stevenson

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.

Those green and sweetly smelling crops
     They led the waggons 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!

Oh, what a joy to clamber there,
     Oh, what a place for play,
With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
     The happy hills of hay!