(To L. And H.H.) O You That Dwell 'Mid Farm And Fold, Yet Keep So Quick Undulled A Heart, I Send You Here That Book Of Gold, So Loved So Long; The Fairest Art, The Sweetest English Song. And Often In The Far-Off Town, When Summer Sits With Open Door, I'll Dream I See You Set It Down Beside The Churn, Whose Round Shall Slacken More And More, Till You Forget To Turn. And I Shall Smile That You Forget, And Dad Will Scold - But Never Mind! Butter Is Good, But Better Yet, Think Such As We, To Leave The Farm And Fold Behind, And Follow Such As He.