Flocks of thousand sheep are fed
Upon its mountains rugged,
Her pastures green and meadows fair
With cattle-herds are studded,
Deep are the lakes in Arvon's vales
Where fish in shoals are landed.
The shepherd's soft and mellow voice
Is heard upon her mountain,
Where oft he hums his rustic song
To his beloved maiden,
Resounding through the gorges deep
With bleat of sheep and oxen.
On Arvon's rock-bound shore doth break
The surge in fretful murmur,
And oft when stirr'd by tempest high
The ocean speaks in thunder,
Spreading through town and village wide
Dismay, despair and fear.
* * * * *
The sun is glorious when it breaks
The gloom of morning darkness,
Sweet are the leaves and flowers of May
Succeeding winter's baldness,
Yet fairer than the whole to me
Are Arvon's maids so guile-less.
If to the sick there is delight
To heal of his affliction,
If to the traveller's weary sight
Sweet is the destination,
Than all these sweeter far to me
The hills and dales of Arvon.
Had I the wings and speed of morn
To skim o'er mount and valley,
I'd hie o'er earth and sea direct
To Arvon's genial country,
And there in peace would end my days,
Far from deceit and envy.
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