©raniiirrj. .189 
With a rosy cheek, a lightsome look, 
And a spirit strong and wild. 
In autumn, all among the swamps 
And marshes soft and wet, 
Come troops of poor hill-children 
The ripened fruit to get. 
The bushes all in water grow, 
In those small pools, that lie 
In scores among the turfy knolls 
On mountains broad and high. 
And there the peasant children come 
To pull the Cranberries red, 
Where bold and booted sporting squires 
Would scarcely dare to tread. 
They only shoot the poor wild birds, 
And chase the timid hare, 
For their diversion; they can live 
In luxury, without care. 
But these poor peasant-children’s lot 
Is full of human wo, 
And hungry, thinly clad, and cold, 
They o’er the mountains go; 
With feet, that shoes have never known, 
And legs all blue and bare, 
And yet, so light are they of heart, 
You’ll hear them laughing there. 
