POETRY.
IN SUNNY PICCADILLY.
IN sunny Piccadilly,
When folks are out of town, I like to go with Willie, Walking up and down, Before the leaves turn brown.
My Willie is not wealthy,
And I must work all day, Yet all the week we're thinking On happy Saturday, When comes our time for play.
For then we like to wander Down pavements clean and wide, And dream we're always idle, And always side by side, With nothing to divide.
Or in the Park we loiter Beneath great shady trees, Where each small twinkling leaflet Tells me glad histories— Yet mine's more bright than these. Then sudden falls a silence, And, though the sky is clear, A cloud comes o'er the pathway, For parting-time is near,
To take from me my dear. . . .
The sun his gold has spent now; He shared with us the best, And Willie, see, is wealthy, And I'm in splendour dressed, All from the purple west.
So oft in Piccadilly, Before the leaves turn brown, I like to go with Willie, Walking up and down, When folks are out of town. W. J. CAMERON'.
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