JOHN BURNS AGAIN. 385 



With ivied walls and a floral arch 

 Bridging the front of the latticed porch ; 

 With flower-lined paths, and nooks with ferns, 

 Surroundings for which the soulful yearns. 

 But not the surroundings of brave John Burns. 

 I would fain give rein to the vain aesthetic. 

 But I'd rather be truthful than poetic ; 

 So I must come down to language tame 

 And show a "story and a half of frame," 

 With whitewash painted, a flowerless lawn — 

 'Tis not the picture I counted on. 

 But I care not who from the canvas turns ; 

 It shows you the home of old John Burns. 



And here he lived from year to year. 

 The sort of fellow who some call queer. 

 For he paid his debts, but to make amends 

 Minded his business and stuck to his friends, 

 Like the wax with which he shaped his ends ! 



For as to the trade of old John Burns, 

 He made and mended shoes by turns ; 

 So he sewed and pegged away, and here 

 Life's stream ran smoothly for many a year. 



In the summer days, when his work was done, 

 He would sit on his steps, while the slanting sun 

 Sent its beams on his little house of frame 

 Till the gable windows danced aflame, 

 And look on scenes in the glowing west. 

 With peaceful thoughts in his thankful breast. 



And truly it was a goodly sight, 

 Did he look to the front or left or right, 

 Where the vista spread for many a rood, 

 Dotted with farm-house, orchard and wood. 



