My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,
And the _köil_ sings above it, in the _siris_ by the well,
From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel's chattering
speech,
And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery _satbhai_
dwell.
But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the _köil's_ note is
strange;
I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom-burdened bough.
Give me back the leafless woodlands where the winds of Springtime
range--
Give me back one day in England, for it's Spring in England now!
Through the pines the gusts are booming, o'er the brown fields
blowing chill,
From the furrow of the plough-share streams the fragrance of the
loam,
And the hawk nests on the cliffside and the jackdaw in the hill,
And my heart is back in England 'mid the sights and sounds of Home.
But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of rose and peach is,
Ah! _köil_, little _köil_, singing on the _siris_ bough,
In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell-like speech is--
Can _you_ tell me aught of England or of Spring in England now?
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW.