POETRY.
NAIRNSHIRE IN JULY.
LONG ere to moor and river the lordly sportsman flies
To regulate his liver with outdoor exercise, Unfashionably early from Euston forth I speed, And quit town's burly-burly to wander North of Tweed.
Not mine the joys of stalking the monarch of the glens, With much laborious walking over the Cairns and Bens; Such sumptuous recreations are far beyond my means ; I spend my brief vacations mid less exalted scenes.
Yet though bereft of treasures which wealth and speed bestow, We humble have our pleasures and do not deem them slow.• We golf, we bathe, we ramble ; we turn our tint to bronze, • And spread, with jam of bramble, innumerable scones.
I cherish no ambition the countryside to scour With odorous expedition at sixty miles an hour : Mine is the scent of clover, the breath of new-mown bay, As on my trusty 'Rover' I trundle down the brae.
Mine is the foxglove raising its white and purple spires, Mine is the broom all blazing with countless golden fires, Mine is the sunset glory that turns the Black Isle bright. And mine the mist-wreath hoary that veils it from our sight: Though sparing of Glenlivet and other kindred drinks, I carved the frequent divot, 0 Nairn, upon thy links, Till in a Scottish lassie, whose method of approach Reminded me of Massy, I found a model coach.
0 amiable Miss Elsie ! the mem'ry of your grace. Although I fly to Chelsea, time never shall efface. Your mien was fresh and vernal, your figure slim and svelte, And yet you bit your "Colonel" a most prodigious welt!
Nor should I fail to mention the charms of Dulsie Bridge, Where, braving the attention of the incisive midge, Nairn's eligible daughters repair for lunch or tea, And Findhorn's wooded waters wind darkling to the sea.
And yet this noble nation, once feared of all its foes, Signs of degeneration occasionally shows; For in the lonest shieling-0 Scotland fair but false !— The very babes are squealing the Merry Widow waltz.
Where forth to war and pillage erstwhile the clansmen" leaped, • I visited a village Jemimaville ycleped.
And when a Cockney " flapper" donned recently a kilt, Though many longed to slap her, her blood remained unspilt.'
O Sandy, sadly erring from your ancestral ways, And foolishly preferring new-fangled alien lays. With unexpected meekness you greet each foreign fraud, And welcome, to your weakness, impostors from abroad.
* Alas! with lightning fleetness my holiday slips past; One never knows its sweetness until the very last ; This afternoon with sorrow I leave the North behind, And in the Strand to-morrow resume the usual grind.
But when my body's pining 'neath London's smoky pall, Or when the sun is shining down like a brazen ball On flags that glow like lava, in spirit I'll return Across the moor by Dave or by the Muckle Burn.
Previous page
