My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,
And the koeil sings above it, in the siris by the
well,
From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel's chattering
speech,
And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery satbhai
dwell.
But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the koeil's note is
strange;
I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom-burdened bough.
Give me back the leafless woodlands where the winds of Springtime
range—
Give me back one day in England, for it's Spring in England now!
Through the pines the gusts are booming, o'er the brown fields
blowing chill,
From the furrow of the plough-share streams the fragrance of the
loam,
And the hawk nests on the cliffside and the jackdaw in the hill,
And my heart is back in England 'mid the sights and sounds of Home.
But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of rose and peach is,
Ah! koeil, little koeil, singing on the siris
bough,
In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell-like speech is—
Can you tell me aught of England or of Spring in England
now?
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW.