King is yonder shepherd stripling,
Yon green hillock is his throne;
And the sun that gilds his tresses
Is his glorious golden crown.

At his feet the sheep are lying,
Servile mob with crimson crosses;
Bull calves are the swaggering warriors,
Each his haughty helmet tosses.

And the goats are court comedians,
And the hosts of birds and kine
Are musicians of the chamber,
With their bells and flutings fine.

Gentle tinklings, dulcet voices!
Mingling with them come the deep
Murmurs of the trees and waters,
And the King drops off to sleep.

While he slumbers rules as Regent
His Prime Minister the Hound,
Who with surly growl and barking
Wakes the echoes all around.

Drowsily the young King mutters,
“Governing is such a bore;
Ah! I would that I could get me
Home to my sweet Queen once more!

“On my queenly Consort's bosom
I will rest my head from pain;
In her eyes, so sweet and tender,
Lies my measureless domain!”