Hail to the fields--with Dwellings sprinkled o'er, And one small hamlet, under a green hill Clustering, with barn and byre, and spouting mill! A glance suffices;--should we wish for more, Gay June would scorn us. But when bleak winds roar Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash, Dread swell of sound! loud as the gusts that lash The matted forests of Ontario's shore By wasteful steel unsmitten--then would I Turn into port; and, reckless of the gale, Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by, While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale, Laugh with the generous household heartily At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale!