POETRY.
SPRING, THE TRAVELLING MAN.
IT is Spring, the Travelling Man, has been here, Here in the glen; He must have passed by in the grey of the dawn, When only the robin and wren Were awake, Watching out with their bright little eyes In the midst of the brake.
The rabbits, maybe, heard him pass,
Stepping light on the grass, Whistling careless and gay at the break o' the day.
Then the blackthorn to give him delight Put on raiment of white.
And all for his sake The gorse on the bill where he rested an hour Grew bright with a splendour of flower.
My grief ! that I was not aware Of himself being there ; It is I would have given my dower To have seen him set forth, Whistling careless and gay in the grey of the morn, By gorse bush and fraughan and thorn, On his way to the north. W. M. LETTS.
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