Squire England has grown old:
Too stiff to ride to hounds,
Too blind to shoot his coverts,
He takes up his great stick
And potters about the grounds.
The meadows and the pond,
The fig-tree on the south wall,
The plantation of young spruces,
The yew hedge twelve foot thick--
He stares at them all;
And grumbling as he goes,
He stops here and there
To spud up a dandelion.
His mind is full of doubt,
For a stranger is his heir.
House, meadows, walks and trees,
Although his sight be dim
He sees them very plainly;
He prays that none may flout
The things so dear to him.