This page has been validated.
POEMS AND LYRICS.
107
Still in my view mile-distant firs appeared,
When, under a patched channel-bank enriched
With foxglove whose late bells drooped seared,
Behold, a family had pitched
Their camp, and labouring the low tent upreared.
Here, too, were many children, quick to scan
A new thing coming; swarthy cheeks, white teeth
In many-coloured rags they ran,
Like iron runlets of the heath.
Dispersed lay broth-pot, sticks, and drinking-can.
Three girls, with shoulders like a boat at sea
Tipped sideways by the wave (their clothing slid
From either ridge unequally),
Lean, swift, and voluble, bestrid
A starting-point, unfrocked to the bent knee.
