I love to see the old heaths' withered brake
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling
While the old Heron from the lonely lake
Starts slow and flaps its melancholy wing,
An oddling crow in idle motions swing
On the half rotten ash tree's topmost twig,
Beside whose trunk the gipsey makes his bed
Up flies the bouncing wood cock from the brig
Where a...



