 | An idyl of work |  |
Then, as a spring becomes a rivulet,
The notes grew light; psalms bubbled into songs,
Songs into ballads,—homely Scottish strains
That vibrate on the heart-strings as no flight
Or fall of operatic somerset
Can ever. Eleanor's unschooled notes fled on
Through the swan-music of the “Land o' the Leal,”
“My ain Countree,” and tender “Auld Lang Syne,”
Touched many an ancient border-melody,
And slipped through carol, roundelay, and catch
So liltingly, the others joined, perforce.
The notes grew light; psalms bubbled into songs,
Songs into ballads,—homely Scottish strains
That vibrate on the heart-strings as no flight
Or fall of operatic somerset
Can ever. Eleanor's unschooled notes fled on
Through the swan-music of the “Land o' the Leal,”
“My ain Countree,” and tender “Auld Lang Syne,”
Touched many an ancient border-melody,
And slipped through carol, roundelay, and catch
So liltingly, the others joined, perforce.
| An idyl of work | |