by Arthur Stringer
T HERE'S a lad sellin' bird-whistles made out av lead;
There's a Greek boy wid vilet-clumps big as your head!
There's a promise av buds on the patient ould trees;
There's a whisper av Spring in the shmoke-laden breeze!
There's a haze on the house-tops, a croon in the air;
There's a hand-organ throbbin' through Madison Square;
And the childer' are dancin' on cobble and flag,
And the Avènoo's thrilled wid the horn from a drag!
There's a wee sparrow chirpin' as glad as a lark,
And daffodils show in the beds av the Park,
And the gerrls have such posies and pinks on their heads
Ye'd be dreamin' their hats were all hyacinthbeds!
There's a rumble av wheels and the roar av a car,
And the patther av hoofs, and the odor of tar!
And the riveters, high on yon sky-scraper sills,
Are all rappin' and tappin' like wood-pecker bills;
And there's house-windys open and doors slammin' shut,
And there's clatther and dust, and the Divil knows what!
But in faith I would give it, the first and the last,
For wan glimpse av the ould Springs over and past,
For the call av the cuckoo, the peewit's ould cry,
And the purple av moorlands against the ould sky,
And the lough, and the heather, and the valleys av green,
And the old shleepy hill-town without a traneen!
Last updated September 05, 2017