THE COLONIST'S CRY.
IT'S cruel of you, Springtime, when folks are growing old, To set their hearts a-longing for banks of primrose gold, Green willows by the river, gold kingcups by the Colue Where every breath is perfume, a jewel every stone.
Lambs call about the meadows, the rooks are on the plough, The thrush is singing anthems, buds gem the apple bough ; The dreamy shadows nestle in streets of sunlit grey, Whilst we're away from England, six thousand miles away.
I see Mount Baker's summit, a cone of rosy snow—
Where waves broke, bloom the lilies the fields of ocean glow As God's sign gleams in heaven: the rocks are pink with foam Of ribes and of stonecrop—our hearts cry out for Home !
For the narrow lanes of England, where may meets overhead ; Where living hamlets cluster round dreamlands of their dead ; Where Hope has met fulfilment, Ambition reached its goal, Each acre had its story, each homestead found its soul.
Where all the earth is mellowed, and Nature's wood lyre strung To loves our maidens whispered, the songs our people sung ; Where some girl's face is smiling in ev'ry op'ning, rose, Some heart of England speaking in °dry wind that blows.
0 England, Songland, Springland ! we wander whilst we live : To broaden Britain's Empire, the best we have we give : Surely they sleep the soundest in Mother's lap who lie, We have worked, our strength is ended: ah! call us home to die.
Pier Island, British Columbia,