Beneath The Greenwood Bough.' - W. Scott. Lightly The Breath Of The Spring Wind Blows, Though Laden With Faint Perfume, 'Tis The Fragrance Rare That The Bushman Knows, The Scent Of The Wattle Bloom. Two-Thirds Of Our Journey At Least Are Done, Old Horse! Let Us Take A Spell In The Shade From The Glare Of The Noonday Sun, Thus Far We Have Travell'D Well; Your Bridle I'll Slip, Your Saddle Ungirth, And Lay Them Beside This Log, For You'll Roll In That Track Of Reddish Earth, And Shake Like A Water-Dog. Upon Yonder Rise There'S A Clump Of Trees, Their Shadows Look Cool And Broad, You Can Crop The Grass As Fast As You Please, While I Stretch My Limbs On The Sward; 'Tis Pleasant, I Ween, With A Leafy Screen O'Er The Weary Head, To Lie On The Mossy Carpet Of Emerald Green, 'Neath The Vault Of The Azure Sky; Thus All Alone By The Wood And Wold, I Yield Myself Once Again To The Memories Old That, Like Tales Fresh Told, Come Flitting Across The Brain.