It touched the dingy walls with gold,
And painted all the china;
The "rosy basins" on the shelf
Grew rosier and finer.
The window high above the road
Looked over field and meadow,
To where the sun, fast rolling down,
Left Scacafell in shadow.
And Charlotte placidly enjoyed,
But gazed without emotion;
Something was lacking, I could see,
But what, I had no notion.
"The windhar on the stairs," she said,
And now she showed elation;
"There's where the THRAM is, an' the lights,
An' all the 'Lectric Station!"
"An' all the folks as plain as plain,
That's comin' in or goin'—
That's what I like," she said, "the thram
An' all the lights a-glowin'!"
WHERE I WAS RARIN' TO
The little stream of Ballacowle.
It tumbles down the Glen
And hides beneath the lady-fern
To sparkle out again—
Then plunges underneath the road
To seek a devious way,
Where lost in quarry refuse now,
Its early cradle lay.
A roomy cradle once it was,
O'er-arched with spreading trees;
A tangled Paradise of flowers,
Scarce touched by passing breeze,
And here, among the primrose tufts,
It wound its cheerful way,
When, long ago, we wove our wreaths
To Welcome in the May
On May Day Eve I wandered there,
And, by the old plum tree,
I found a bent and aged man
Who gazed along the lea.
His dress was of the loaghtan-brown,
His hair was white as snow;
And quietly he rested there
And watched the streamlet flow.