POETRY.
BY THE CANAL, CASHIOBCRY.
De Cashiobury all the night The waters slip past bridges white Alone in such a dark as none But waters make where trees bend down.
And when day comes, nay mother sits Beneath a tree, and half our wits With joy are dazed and quite astray To watch the sights that come this way.
Here pass great boats as down a stage In immemorial pilgrimage, So gaily painted that the meads Show no such emeralds and reds.
Their girls have skirts barred red and blue, Their men have ears with rings thrust through, And from their prows fall drops as clear As cuckoo-notes dropped through still air.
Lock-houses here are small and white To guide the boats that come by night; At every turn the waters find A whiter than they left behind.
Near by. the miller sits and talks Beside his wife, wham trees and stalks Of elder make a corner green
Three emerald-mines could-hide within. x.
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