POETRY.
MAYSONG.
I am weary of winter; the cold days tarry Though April is over with long delay,
And I would that desire and delight that marry
In song could carry me swiftly whither
They bore me, a boy, in my times of play ;
But to-morrow at length I shall journey thither Past bonnie Saint Johnstoun that grows not grey.
I was wont in spring to return to the high land,
To look for a little on sea and spray, On the heather hills of the shire of Argyle And the loch and the island, the sparse green spaces 'Twist sheltering hill and bordering bay ; But flowers grow fairest in landward places And I would be in the North to-day, Where the land rolls up toward many a mountain With dens and glens and glades by the way, Where a thousand waters of fall and fountain That find their account in the riches of reaping Fill full the tides of the swift, sweet Tay, Who bath in his gift, in his care, in his keeping, The wondrous music and mirth of May.
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