A CRY FOR " CALLER " AIR.
A lady, who does not seem to appreciate the hot winds of Australia, has invoked the muses, and sent the following little Scotch poem to the " Hay Standard : " — Oh, for a breath o' the moorlands, A whiff o f the caller air ; For the smell o' the flowering heather My very heart is sair. Oh, for the Bound o' the burnies That wimple to the sea ; For the sight o f the browning bracken On the hillside waving free. Oh, for the blue rocks cradled In the arms o* mountains grey, That smile ac they shadow the drifting clouds, A' the bonny summer day. Oh, for the topß o' mountains, White wi* eternal snaw j For the mists that drift across the lift, For the strong east winds that blaw. I am sick o' the blazing sunshine, That burns through the weary hours, O' gaudy birds singing never a sang, O' beautiful scentless flowers. I wad gie a' their Southern glory For a taste o' a quid saut wind, Wi' a road ower the bonny sea before. And a track o' foam behind, Auld Scotland may be rugged, Her mountains stern and bare, But, oh, for a breath o' her moorlandf, A whiff o' her caller air.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/ST18720402.2.20
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Southland Times, Issue 1559, 2 April 1872, Page 3
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212A CRY FOR " CALLER " AIR. Southland Times, Issue 1559, 2 April 1872, Page 3
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