Poems and ballads Second edition. By Janet Hamilton ... With introductory papers by the Rev. George Gilfillan and the Rev. Alexander Wallace |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
LINES
On the long and beautiful Summer of 1865, in connection with the Cattle Plague then raging.
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | Poems and ballads |  |
154
LINES On the long and beautiful Summer of 1865, in connection with the Cattle Plague then raging.
Summer, long, and bright, and glowing,
Flowers in triple plenty blowing,
Flushed the garden, field and glade,
Tints of every hue and shade.
Woods and fields more richly green,
Waters placid, pure and sheen,
Singing, sparkling, danced along,
Musical as merles' song.
Ne'er did “incense breathing morn”
O'er green fields of springing corn,
Flowery lea, and moorland heath,
Shed more balmy odorous breath.
Such pearl-drops ne'er, I ween,
Gathered were on village green,
On sweet May, by sportive girls,
They the purest, fairest pearls,
'Sixty-five as thou hast given
From the dewy morning heaven.
With the first faint streak of morn,
When the cock first winds his horn,
Wakes the music of the woods,
Rising, swelling into floods
Of melody! Sweet warbling throats!
How ye poured your jubilant notes
Of love and joy, devoid of fear:
No tuneless Winter chilled your cheer.
Flowers in triple plenty blowing,
Flushed the garden, field and glade,
Tints of every hue and shade.
Woods and fields more richly green,
Waters placid, pure and sheen,
Singing, sparkling, danced along,
Musical as merles' song.
Ne'er did “incense breathing morn”
O'er green fields of springing corn,
Flowery lea, and moorland heath,
Shed more balmy odorous breath.
Such pearl-drops ne'er, I ween,
Gathered were on village green,
On sweet May, by sportive girls,
They the purest, fairest pearls,
'Sixty-five as thou hast given
From the dewy morning heaven.
With the first faint streak of morn,
When the cock first winds his horn,
Wakes the music of the woods,
Rising, swelling into floods
155
How ye poured your jubilant notes
Of love and joy, devoid of fear:
No tuneless Winter chilled your cheer.
In that Summer, long and glowing,
Nature from her lap o'erflowing
Spread around an ample feast
With full hand for bird and beast.
Ah! what pleasure 'twas to see
Straying o'er the daisied lea,
Or, recumbent on the sward,
“The milky mothers of the herd,”
Udder rich in lacteal wealth,
Full of lusty life and health—
Richest clover, greenest grass,
Cropping quietly.
Nature from her lap o'erflowing
Spread around an ample feast
With full hand for bird and beast.
Ah! what pleasure 'twas to see
Straying o'er the daisied lea,
Or, recumbent on the sward,
“The milky mothers of the herd,”
Udder rich in lacteal wealth,
Full of lusty life and health—
Richest clover, greenest grass,
Cropping quietly.
Now, alas!
Sore plague-smitten, dying, dead,
On the pastures where they fed!
Thousands upon thousands gone—
Deep the loss, and sad the moan
In the dairies and the farms,
Where each day brings fresh alarms:
And the wonder ever grows
Whence the dire distempter flows.
Ah! not now the milkmaid's song,
As she drives the herd along,
Comes on woodland echoes borne,
At gloamin' grey or dewy morn.
Now she walks with mournful tread
Through each empty stall and shed;
Meets her ear no welcome low:
All is deathly silence now.
For your suff'rings, sinless things,
Weeps the muse even while she sings:
Guilt not yours brought down the rod
Of a just and righteous God.
To that God we now appeal:
He has wounded, He can heal;
He alone can grant release
From this dark and fell disease.
From our sinful, suff'ring land,
Lord, remove Thy chast'ning hand!
Sore plague-smitten, dying, dead,
On the pastures where they fed!
Thousands upon thousands gone—
Deep the loss, and sad the moan
In the dairies and the farms,
Where each day brings fresh alarms:
And the wonder ever grows
Whence the dire distempter flows.
Ah! not now the milkmaid's song,
As she drives the herd along,
Comes on woodland echoes borne,
At gloamin' grey or dewy morn.
156
Through each empty stall and shed;
Meets her ear no welcome low:
All is deathly silence now.
For your suff'rings, sinless things,
Weeps the muse even while she sings:
Guilt not yours brought down the rod
Of a just and righteous God.
To that God we now appeal:
He has wounded, He can heal;
He alone can grant release
From this dark and fell disease.
From our sinful, suff'ring land,
Lord, remove Thy chast'ning hand!
| Poems and ballads | |