Frederick Locker-Lampson

Last year I trod these fields with Di, Fields fresh with clover and with rye; They now seem arid!

They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat:

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, He seem'd a most despairing swain; But bluer sky brought newer tie,

I recollect a nurse call'd Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man