POETRY.
GLEN SANNOX, SEPTEMBER 16TE, 187—.
Two old friends sat upon a stone, One named 'Lizabeth, t'other named John ; There they sat shoulder to shoulder, All among the browning heather, In that clear, September weather.
Stillness filled the air with a gentle sadness, Not without, all through, its own touch of gladness. Near them lay the sea, almost heard its voice is, 'Cross the stubble-field, where the heart rejoices.
Of that stalwart farmer, who among hie stooks Stalks important, and his busy hinds o'erlooks, They are leading in the sheaves, with much zeal and laughter ; When the kirn* is come, they'll wilder be and dafter.
But what of the old friends, up upon the heather, Sitting there without a word, sitting there together, Looking up that famous glen, filled with its own weirdness, Standing up against the blue filled with to-be-fearedness ?
There, far up, right to the left, the tremendous Saddle, 'Cross which lege of fearless youth comfortably straddle,— One leg in our Sannox Glen, t'other in Glen Rosie, There they bang these fearless legs, comfortably poses.
Wild the glen is, clear the sky, sweet the lingering sunlight, Just that kind of sunlight 'tis, most akin to moonlight.
Nothing say the cronies on that grey boulder sitting, While like mists across their minds memory's ghosts are flitting, Filled with the thoughts of other years, Thoughts that were baptised in tears, Thoughts that Time helps to endure, Because for them he knows no cure.
Speak they none and think they much,—much do they remember, Comfily together there, that Sixteenth of September.
ARRAN.
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