I love to start out arter night's begun, An' all the chores about the farm are done, The critters milked an' foddered, gates shet fast, Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper past, An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene lamp,-- I love, I say, to start upon a tramp, To shake the kinkles out o' back an' legs, An' kind o' rack my life off from the dregs Thet's apt to settle in the buttery-hutch Of folks thet foller in one rut too much: Hard work is good an' wholesome, past all doubt; But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuckered out. Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you know, There's certin spots where I like best to go: The Concord road, for instance, (I, for one, Most gin'lly ollers call it _John Bull's Run._)-- The field o' Lexin'ton, where England tried The fastest colors thet she ever dyed,-- An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he came, Found was the bee-line track to heaven an' fame,-- Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so's to save the toll. They're 'most too fur away, take too much time To visit often, ef it ain't in rhyme; But there's a walk thet's hendier, a sight, An' suits me fust-rate of a winter's night,-- I mean the round whale's-back o' Prospect Hill. I love to loiter there while night grows still, An' in the twinklin' villages about, Fust here, then there, the well-saved lights goes out, An' nary sound but watch-dogs' false alarms, Or muffled cock-crows from the drowsy farms, Where some wise rooster (men act jest thet way) Stands to't thet moon-rise is the break o' day: So Mister Seward sticks a three-months pin Where the war'd oughto end, then tries agin;-- My gran'ther's rule was safer'n 't is to crow: _Don't never prophesy--onless ye know._