Satyrs

Hear the satyrs calling, crying, as the windy day is dying o'er the rocks and the shepherd speeds the flocks they're eyeing! See the satyrs leap and scramble thro' the briar and brake and bramble; In the glow of the red sun sunken low they gambol, never thinking of the morrow, without head or heart to borrow any care. of all sadness, of all sorrow unaware.