James Hebblethwaite

Merrymind, Merrymind, whither art thou roaming? Merrymind, Merrymind, nay, art thou sleeping yet? Oh, to us, sweet minstrel dear, wilt thou not be homing?

The sea coast of Bohemia Is pleasant to the view When singing larks spring from the grass

Thus pass the glories of the world! He lies beneath the pall's white folds: His sword is sheathed, his pennon furled,

As I rode in the early dawn, While stars were fading white, I saw upon a grassy slope