Well do I love to ramble
Among the golden heath,
To roam, and rove, and scramble
On the soft turf beneath.
'Tis there that health is ever
Abounding to be found,
And beauty faileth never
In full charms to abound.
I pity oft and sorrow
For the poor city child,
That ne'er the chance can borrow
To ramble free and wild;
It looks so pale and feeble,
Its cheek is thin and white,
Its sicknesses are treble,
Its joys are never bright.
How different is the childling
That roams the open lea!
A rosy little wildling,
And gay, and blithe, and free.