POETRY.

NAIRNSHIRE REVISITED. (To E. K. H.)

ONCE again, from Lonflon's flurry, Grown a trifle too acute, To thy shores, 0 Firth of Moray, Have I hastened, to recruit—

Moray, where the sea-birds' clamour Floats by night along the breeze, And by day the yellowhammer Ceaselessly laments his "cheese."

Where above the pines ascending Giant sandhills tower and blaze, And the misty headlands, bending Northward, melt into the haze.

Nowhere else in such a cluster Honeysuckle blooms and blows, Or a more imperial lustre

On the purple foxglove glows.

Snow, unmelted by the Zephyr, Lingers on Ben Wyvis' heights, Nestling at whose foot Strathpeffer Her dyspeptic guests invites.

'Tis the same enchanting region,

Limned by St. John's classic pen, Yet although its charms be legion, It has lost its flower in men.

Ev'n the ancient pastime offers

Scanty respite and relief To a few greybeaded golfers

From anxiety or grief.

For the rest, young whippersnappers,

Freed from classics, " maths," or " etinks," Stout Glaswegian dames and flappers,

Now monopolize the links.

These I envy not my neighbour,

As I do his little maids

Who assiduously labour With their buckets and their spades,

Freshened by the cool, caressing Breeze from off the Black Isle's shore,

And, by childhood's crowning blessing,

Knowing nothing of the war—

War, where Nature is inverted, And the sire outlives his sons, And the noblest have deserted Home and wife and little ones.

Far it seems, the din of battle, From this clover-scented land, Where the children play and prattle Hour by hour upon the strand.

Yet across the Firth, unresting In their vigil night and day, You may see destroyers questing Only six short miles away; Hear the sirens weirdly hooting, Drone of seaplanes, boom of guns, When the sailors practise shooting At a mark in lieu of Huns.

Daylight wanes; behind the Souters* Robed in flame the sun goes down, And the band of health-recruiters Seek their quarters in the town.

Soon the stars begin to glitter, And the night is kind and fair, Bringing sleep, the magic knitter Of the ravelled sleeve of care.

C. L. G.

• The flouters or fluters, rocks at the entrance to Cromarty.