4 DECEMBER 1926, Page 9

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A WHITE road winding a green land through,— Here a scent o' primrose, there a stretch o' blue ; A gold gorse burning on a tall hill-crest : These will I be seeking when I turn me West.

A grey mist lifting at a pale dawn's break,— A low wind crooning round a reed-rimmed lake,— A seagull crying o'er the ocean's breast : • These will I be finding when I turn me West.

A brown thrush singing on a wild rose-spray,— A daft stream dancing down a wind-swept brae,—. A blackbird calling through an Autumn gloam : These will I be hearing when I turn me home.

LIAM P. CLirreit.