And there, in the golden weather,

He stitched and hammered and sung: In the brook he moistened his leather, In the pewter mug his tongue.

Well knew the tough old Teuton

Who brewed the stoutest ale,

And he paid the goodwife's reckoning
In the coin of song and tale.

The songs they still are singing
Who dress the hills of vine,
The tales that haunt the Brocken
And whisper down the Rhine.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,

The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet maples Flashing in foam and spray, —

Down on the sharp-horned ledges Plunging in steep cascade, Tossing its white-maned waters Against the hemlock's shade.

Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
East and west and north and south;
Only the village of fishers

Down at the river's mouth;

Only here and there a clearing,

With its farm-house rude and new, And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew.

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