This dark December morning, A picture of Italian skies, The
sober heap adorning; A vision of a purple bay, A town all red and yellow. How dreary is our winter grey Beside that sunshine mellow !
But though your southern paradise A moment sets us longing, We treasure more if we are wise The good to us belonging ; When you to the Campanian shore Fled with the fickle swallow, You left some neighbours at our door, Like us, who could not follow.
As round us to receive their dole They crowd and flock together, We grow akin to them in soul, And almost of one feather.
Yea! in the barren, roseless hours When frost the ground cloth harden, The birds shall be our winter flowers, And blossom in our garden.
There tits and blue-caps, starlings too, Now take their summer wages ; The place would be just like the "Zoo," Only it has no cages.
"Outdoor relief" for all is spread, But robins, when they're able, Will "come into the House" instead, And breakfast on the table.
And oft, when heavy with the snow The laurel boughs are drooping, Great gulls with wings like Cupid's bow Come o'er the banquet swooping.
Here one and all, this truce of God Their wilder nature taming, Tread fearless as through Eden trod The beasts for Adam's naming.
Enjoy who will the cruel South Where weakness goes unpitied, Where larks are dainties for the mouth, And thrushes snared and spitted !
Our weather may be somewhat hard, But surely men are harder When tiny songsters they regard As booty for the larder.
Come rain or snow, come hail or rime, We, tethered here by duty, Envy you not your softer clime Nor all its garish beauty.
But draw we nearer to our friends The way that Winter taught us, And nobly shall he make amends For any ills he brought us. R. H. LAW.
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