B40 
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
- 
Child of the town ! for thee I sigh; 
A gilded roof’s thy golden sky, 
A carpet is thy daisied sod, 
A narrow street thy boundless road; 
Thy rushing deer’s the clattering tramp 
Of watchmen, thy best light’s a lamp. 
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines 
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines; 
I sing of thee in sadness ; where 
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair? 
Child of the country ! thy small feet 
Tread on strawberries red and sweet; 
With thee I wander forth to see 
The flowers which most delight the bee; 
The bush o’er which the throstle sung 
In April, while she nursed her young ; 
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where 
She bred her twins, the timorous hare ; 
The knoll, wrought o’er with wild blue-bells, 
Where brown bees build their balmy cells ; 
The greenwood stream, the shady pool, 
Where trouts leap when the day is cool; 
The shilter's nest that seems to be 
A portion of the sheltering tree,— 
And other marvels, which my verse 
Can find no language to rehearse. 
