Jean Blewett: Verses about Water

There's an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
Here's to the Saint that blessed it!
And here's to the billows wild and free
That for centuries have caressed it!

Here's to the day when the men that roam
Send longing eyes o'er the water!
Here's to the land that still spells home
To each loyal son and daughter!

Here's to old Ireland-fair, I ween,
With the blue skies stretched above her!
Here's to her shamrock warm and green,
And here's to the hearts that love her!

Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
Sing to the breezes passing by,
Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!

Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
Morning and noon and night for long,
Sun and rain and dew and mist,
All that has made you glad and strong

The harvest fields of the far, far west
Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
Every ripple upon its breast
Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!

Far as the eye can reach it goes,
Farther yet, 'till there seems no end,
Under a sky where blue and rose
With the gold and turquoise softly blend.

Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
Broad and beautiful in God's eyes,
Here in this young land, all our own,
The garner-house of the old world lies.

The river is a ribbon wide,
The falls a snowy feather,
And stretching far on ilka side
Are hills abloom wi' heather.
The wind comes loitering frae the west
By weight o' sweets retarded;
The sea-mist hangs on Arran's crest,
A Golden Fleece unguarded.

We ken ye weel, ye fond young pair,
That hand in hand do tarry;
The youth is Burns, the Bard o' Ayr,
The lass is Highland Mary.
He tells her they will never pairt-
'Tis life and luve taegither-
The world has got the song by hairt
He sang among the heather.

'Twas lang ago, lang, lang ago,
Yet all remember dearly
The eyes, the hair, the brow o' snow
O' her he luved sae dearly.
And lads still woo their lassies dear,
I' cot and hall and dairy,
By words he whispered i' the ear
O' his ain Highland Mary.

'Tis noon, the meadow stretches in the sun,
And every little spear of grass uplifts its slimness to the glow
To let the heavy-laden bees pass out.

A stream comes at a snail's pace through the gloom
Of shrub and fern and brake,
Leaps o'er a wall, goes singing on to find
The coolness of the lake.

A wild rose spreads her greenness on a hedge,
And flings her tinted blossoms in the air;
The sweetbriar neighbors with that porcupine
Of shrubs, the gooseberry; with parasol
Of white the elderberry shades her head
And dreams of purple fruit and wine-press chill.

From off her four warm eggs of mottled shade,
A bird flies with a call of love and joy
That wins an answer straight
From that brown thing of gladness on a bough,
Too slight to hold him and his weight of song,
The proud and watchful mate.

The wind comes heavy freighted from the wood,
With jasmine, honeysuckle, iris, phlox,
And lilies red and white;
The blue lake murmurs, and the world seems all
A garden of delight.