JOHN
ALFORD ,
THE
SINGERS.
THERE 'S
a mist
on
the
land ,
low
Aying
O' er
cottage
and
meadow
and
pen ,
And
a
wind
in
the eaves
is crying
From
over
the fen .
Fallen
the
treasure
of
beeches
And
naked
the tangle
of
thorn
,
And
the
bare
boughs make
sad
speeches
And
sighings forlorn
.
There
's
death
in
the marshes
reeking
And
death
in
the
arm
of
the
air
,
And
our hearths
to
the mists
are
leaking
And
no
warmth
there
.
Sweet
ye
bards
was the
singing
Of magical numbers
ye
made
When
summer her
bounty
was Ainging
O’
er
forest
and
glade
.
And
we hearing
forgot
them
after
,
When
the mists
lay
still
in
the fen
,
Nor heeded
nor
needed
,
for
laughter
Was
in
us
then
.