Gone are the fifing crickets, gone
The feathered harbingers of dawn,
And gone the woodland's bright display,
But loyal Love flees not away.
With intermingled light and shade
The shifting seasons come and fade;
Our fond hopes fail, false friends betray,
But loyal Love flees not away!
Clinton Scollard.
IN TOWN.
"The blue fly sung in the pane."—Tennyson.
Toiling in Town now is "horrid"
(There is that woman again!)—
June in the zenith is torrid,
Thought gets dry in the brain.
There is that woman again:
"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"
Thought gets dry in the brain;
Ink gets dry in the bottle.
"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"
Oh for the green of a lane!—
Ink gets dry in the bottle;
"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!
Oh for the green of a lane,
Where one might lie and be lazy!
"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane;
Bluebottles drive me crazy!
Where one might lie and be lazy,
Careless of Town and all in it!—
Bluebottles drive me crazy:
I shall go mad in a minute!