Publisher's Synopsis
The painted Briton built his mound, And left his celts and clay, On yon fair slope of sunlit ground That fronts your garden gay; The Roman came, he bore the sway, He bullied, bought, and sold, Your fountain sweeps his works away Beside your manor old!But still his crumbling urns are found Within the window-bay, Where once he listened to the sound That lulls you day by day;- The sound of summer winds at play, The noise of waters cold To Yarty wandering on their way, Beside your manor old!
