And the daffodil's fair on the leas,
And the soul of the Southron might rest,
And be perfectly happy with these;
But WE, that were nursed on the knees
Of the hills of the North, we would fleet
Where our hearts might their longing appease
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

ENVOY

Ah Constance, the land of our quest
It is far from the sounds of the street,
Where the Kingdom of Galloway's blest
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!



VILLANELLE--(To M. Joseph Boulmier, author of "Les Villanelles.")



Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Hath the singer ceased to sing?
Hath the Master lost his lute?

Many a pipe and scrannel flute
On the breeze their discords fling;
Villanelle, why art THOU mute?

Sound of tumult and dispute,