Lay Of The Spring.
By James McIntyre
Let others sing their favourite lay,
From early morn till close of day,
More useful themes engage our pen,
We sing the lay of our good hen.
For she doth lay each morn an egg,
And it is full and large and big,
Abroad she doth never travel,
Happy she when scratching gravel.
And she loud cackles songs of praise
Every morn when e'er she lays,
Proud she is when she finds pickings
For to feed her brood of chickens.
It greatly puzzled her one day
When she found white nest egg of clay,
She knew some one did trick play her,
For she was no brick layer.
Vain and stately male bird stalks,
Leading his hens along the walks,
Proudly each feather in his tail
Makes rival roosters for to quail.
Our muse now soars on feathery wing,
And cheerful it doth hail the spring,
Bringing the sunshine and showers,
Green grass and buds and leafy bowers.
So pleasant is the month of May,
When bushes shoot out blooming spray,
'Ere spring we're tired of winter's white,
Spring's varied colours do delight.