THY DAYS BE BRIGHT 



While weary yeldrins seem to wail 



Their little nestlings torn, 

 The merry wren, frae den to den, 



Goes j inkling through the thorn. 



The roses fauld their silken leaves, 



The foxglove shuts its bell; 

 The honeysuckle and the birk 



Spread fragrance through the dell. 

 Let others crowd the giddy court 



Of mirth and revelry 

 The simple joys that Nature yields 



Are dearer far to me. 



R. TANNAHILL. 

 The Midges Dance Aboon the Burn. 



The groves of Blarney 

 They look so charming, 

 Down by the purling 



Of sweet silent streams, 

 Being banked with posies, 

 That spontaneous grows there, 

 Planted in order 



By the sweet rock close. 



[49l 



