Lo, dawning o'er yon mountain grey Glen-Shira knoweth well 'tis Beltane's blissful day. The Maum has donned its brightest green, The hawthorn whitens round Kilblane, And shews Dunchorvil's crest its own heath-purpling sheen. Hark! from yon grove that thrilling gush Of song from linnet, merle, and thrush! To hear herself so praised the morning well may blush. The lark, yon crimson clouds among, Rains down a very flood of song; An age, that song to list, would not seem lost or long. Yon cushat by Cuilvocan's stream The spirit of some bard you'd deem One who had lived and died in love's delicious dream. Thrice welcome minstrel ! now at hand, The cuckoo joins the tuneful band: A choir like this might grace the bowers of fairy-land ! Now is the hour by Duloch's tide To scent the birch that decks its side, And watch the snow-white swans o'er its calm bosom glide. Now is the hour a minstrel might Be blameless if, in his delight, He druid-like adored the sun that crowns yon height. O May! thou'rt an enchantress rare— Thy presence maketh all things fair; Thou comest, and the clouds are not, The foaming torrent from the hill Thou changest to a gentle rill A thread of liquid pearl, that faintly murmurs still. Thine is the blossom-laden tree The meads that white with lambkins be Thine, too, the nether world that in each lake we see. Cheer'd by thy smile, the herd-boy gay And wonders who can be the mocker in his way. Thou givest fragrance to the breeze, A gleaming glory to the seas, Nor less thy grace is seen in yonder emerald leas. Around me in this dewy den Wild flowers imparadise the scene,- Some here and there, with modest grace, While others coyly share the bee's more rude caress. Above around me-all things seem So witching that I almost deem Myself asleep, and these, creations of a dream! But cease, my muse ambitious! Frail Thy skill in fitting strains to hail The morn that makes a heaven of Shira's lovely vale. MY OWN NATIVE COT. My own native Cot, aye so dear unto me— That home where the stranger found welcome unbought, Methinks I still see the sweet neuk of bright green, Though much in the city I well can admire; And the song of the thrush in the balm-breathing brake. ANNIE'S EYES. My Annie's form, my Annie's face |