334 SPRING TIME. 



THE MOOKS. 



By THE HON. T. II. LIDDELL. 



THE moors, the moors, the bonny brown moors, 

 Shining and fresh with April showers ! 



When the wild birds sing 



The return of spring, 



And the gorse and the broom 



Shed the rich perfume 



Of their golden bloom, 



'T is a joy to revisit the bonny brown moors. 

 Aloft in the air floats the white sea-mew, 

 And pipes his shrill whistle the grey curlew ; 

 And the peewit gambols around her nest, 

 And the heath-cock crows on the mountain's crest ; 

 And freely gushes the dark brown rill, 

 In cadence sweet, from the lonely hill; 

 Where, mingling her song with the torrent's din, 

 As it bubbles and foams in the rocky linn, 

 Twitters and plunges the water-crow 

 In the pool where the trout are springing below ; 

 And the lambs in the sunshine leap and play 

 By their bleating dams on the grassy brae, 

 With a withered thorn for their trysting place, 

 To mark the goal where their foot-prints trace 

 The narrow course of their sportive race. 

 Oh ! know ye the region in spring more fair 

 Than the banks and the glens of the moorland bare ? 



