Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, VERSES DESCRIPTIVE OF AN EARLY MORNING WALK IN APRIL: 1830, by JANET HAMILTON



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

VERSES DESCRIPTIVE OF AN EARLY MORNING WALK IN APRIL: 1830, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The blithe voice o' spring through the woodlan's was ringin'
Last Line: "an' will lo'e till I leave't for ""the lan' o' the leal."
Alternate Author Name(s): Hamilton, Janet Thompson
Subject(s): Nature; Spring; Walking


THE blithe voice o' Spring through the woodlan's was ringin';
Frae her nest 'mang the gowans the laverock was springin';
The breeze was asleep, but the burnie was singin',
And clear blabs o' dew frae ilk green blade war hingin'.

The hare was juist scuddin' awa' to her lair—
She had munch'd at the corn till she wantit na mair;
The craws war asteer, for the morning was fair,
Like the roar o' the linn cam' their soun' on the air.

The red-lippit gowan' had closed her sweet mou',
But the cup o' the primrose was lippin' wi' dew;
An' the hy'cinth had kaim'd oot her ringlets o' blue
Till the dell o' their fragrance an' beauty was fu'.

Wi' a half-open e'e the young sun leukit oot
Ower the hill taps, to see what the warl' was aboot;
An' the cock on his bugle fu' loudly did toot,
Warning a' to their "darg," baith the man an' the brute.

An' the lane star that hings on the e'e-bree o' morn
Grew pale, for young day her bricht tresses had shorn;
An' aye she grew paler, till, dim an' forlorn,
She sank in the red clouds that herald the morn.

Then a rich gowden stream frae the fountain o' licht
Gush't oot,—an' the mists that had happit the nicht
Row'd up frae the glens, an' war sune oot o' sicht,
An' the green yirth lay smilin' sae lown an' sae bricht.

Up the heather-clad hill to the big boulder-stane,
Whaur aft in my rambles a rest I hae ta'en,
I sat mysel' doon on't to leuk a' my lane
On the lan' whaur frae bairnhood to age I had gane.

Oh! dear to my heart, an' fu' sweet to my e'en,
My ain Caledonia! aye thou hast been—
Nae lan' I hae read o', or heard o', or seen,
Has thy wit, an' thy worth, an' thy courage, I ween.

Thy peat-fires are luntin',—hoo fragrant the smell
This bab o' the heather an' bonnie blue-bell—
This twig o' green birk—oh, I canna weel tell
Hoo the sicht an' the scent gars my fu' bosom swell!

Thy laigh-theekit biggins, whaur aft the sweet psalm
Is heard in the e'enings sae holy an' calm;
On the leal Scottish heart it fa's like saft balm,
The lown voice o' prayer, the soun' o' the psalm.

Noo, "I'm wearin' awa' to the Lan' o' the Leal;"
But lang as I dow to the boulder I'll speel,
To see spread afore me the lan' I lo'e weel,
An' will lo'e till I leave't for "the Lan' o' the Leal."





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