Poetry.

Southern Cross, Volume 2, Issue 32, 3 November 1894, Page 3

Poetry.

THE SPRIG OF HEATHER. What stirs my heart deep to its core, ■ And makes the tear-drops gather F ’Tis but a simple little flower — A tiny sprig of heather . , v, . From one of dear old Scotland s hills. All purple with its blooming,- '' ■■ Where every breeze its sweetness- falls - y With Nature’s sweet perfuming. ■ It brings me back the long ago. And dear familiar faces• ' Of many that are now laid lowFond memory sadly traces. Brings back my childhood’s sunny, days , When the lark and I together Oft sang on Gala’s bonny braes Amang the bloomin’ heather. Oh, little flower, how ye make me dream Of the days of Auld Lang.Syne ; Wnen hair now grey had a sunny gleam, And the eye with mirth did shine. I will lay thee now with my sacred things That speak of the dear old past; And the few still left of my early friends I shall love them to the last. . Though now afar from my native land. She is dear to me as ever; [strand, There are lovely flowers on this foreign But I miss—oh, I miss the heather. I. A. A. B,