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Rh Then where figs and olives grow, Mules plod surely on and slow; Steering thus for many a day, Southward still our course away, Swallow, I would fly with thee.

Past Gibraltar's rocky steep, Dashing o'er the foaming deep; Then our roving journey o'er, On the sultry Afric's shore, Swallow, I would rest with thee.

But when spring's soft gales shall play Once more o'er our trackless way, Round and round, in sportive ring, Joyously on home-bound wing, Swallow, I would fly with thee.

 

the sun shines o'er the hill, Now the morning breaketh clear, Chanticleer with clarion shrill Waketh all the farm-yard near. Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows nursed by night retire, And the peeping sunbeam now Paints with gold the village-spire.

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge See the chatt'ring swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing. 