The sun has set and the rain falls more thickly on the hills. Through the gossamer of moving mist fond fancies steal to me. And so the last scene before this slowly falling curtain sings of the Past.
What play does not? It is the song of the rain. Would you like to hear it?...
THE SONG OF THE RAIN
Oh, I'm longing for the homeland way past the setting sun—
I'm yearning for old faces and for more sober fun;
But sometimes, as at even, my heart with pleasure fills,
While it drifts back to England—when the rain is on the hills.
Oh, I'm tired of the Orient, I want the old, old lanes.
I want the Dear Old Country—her pleasures and her pains.
I want the white-frilled hedgerows—the heather and the rills
That lift me back to England now the rain is on the hills.
Night's mantle softly falling o'er Kastamuni town,
The last dim colours flying, dark grey and dusky brown.
I hear the goatherd piping to the flock his good-night trills,
And my heart hies back to England—for the rain is on the hills.
Below me in its basin the old town dreams away—
I see the first light flicker that ends another day.
The distant bugles dying—the muezzin floats and stills
My heart to pray for England—when the rain is on the hills.
Oh, I'm longing for the homeland, my homefolk and my pals,
I know that some have fallen 'mid the bullets' madrigals;
But a memory's in her woodlands—a love no distance kills—
And to-night my heart's in England—for the rain is on the hills.
Pacific Roller.