“ All in ye Merrie Month of May ” 
I would sing thee to sleep, 
But no strength my voice knows, 
And under my hand 
Will thine eyelids ne’er close. 
Oh, little dark swallow, 
What dost thou want here, 
Thy black robe bringeth fright 
To the soul of my Dear. 
Like a dark gloomy pall 
Thy wing shadows His bed, 
And my heart groweth sad 
With each circle o’erhead. 
My child, art thou wakeful ? 
See, the Swallow flies away ; 
So sleep softly, my Jesu, 
The Dove comes to-day. 
It is curious that in Virgil’s mention of the Swallow he 
uses the same epithet of “ nigra ” or dark, as follows : 
Nigra velut magnas domini cum divitis asdes 
Pervolat, et pennis alta atria lustrat hirundo. 
As a child I remember once being highly delighted with 
a young Swallow falling down the chimney of an old 
Italian house where I was staying. I took it into my bed (I 
did not know much about the natural history of Swallows !) 
and tried, by warming it, to recover it of the shock. But in 
vain; it died the next day, and had to be buried with honours. 
Dr. Hardy, a well-known Border naturalist, gone from 
among us, alas! now, is credited with the following story: 
A man who wanted to know where the Swallows went in the 
winter, caught one and tied round its neck a card with the 
words “ Kimmerghame Mill ” on it. He then let it go. The 
following year the bird came back with the addition : “ River 
Nile, Egypt.” 
Fay went fishing to-day, and I attended her with the 
creel and landing-net. Cold, very cold by the river ; I 
found it difficult to believe it was really the end of May. 
A dear little Willow-wren attended us along the bank, 
hopping on the leafless branches of some Ash saplings by the 
water. Surely a curious day to choose for shearing sheep, 
145 K 
