Page:Acadiensis Q2.djvu/178
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The Legend of the Mayflower.
The Trailing Arbutus, Special Flower of Nova Scotia.
From Lays of the True North and Other Canadian Poems.
When the maple wears its tassels and the birch-buds grow apace,
And the willows gleam out golden in the sunset's tender grace,
And the ferns, amid the mosses, their curly heads uprear,
Then wakes our wilding blossom, first and fairest of the year—
The Mayflower—oh, the Mayflower!—sweet of scent and fair to see,
Tiny, trailing, pink arbutus, chosen flower of Acadie!
And the willows gleam out golden in the sunset's tender grace,
And the ferns, amid the mosses, their curly heads uprear,
Then wakes our wilding blossom, first and fairest of the year—
The Mayflower—oh, the Mayflower!—sweet of scent and fair to see,
Tiny, trailing, pink arbutus, chosen flower of Acadie!
Sheltered neath the drooping pine-boughs, see its tendrils creeping low,
Gleam in fresh and glistening verdure, through the swiftly melting snow,
Till the pink buds in the sunshine open wide their throats to fling
From their censors, rarest incense on the balmy air of spring—
The Mayflower—oh, the Mayflower!—sweet of scent and fair to see,
How we hail thee in the spring time, chosen flower of Acadie!
Gleam in fresh and glistening verdure, through the swiftly melting snow,
Till the pink buds in the sunshine open wide their throats to fling
From their censors, rarest incense on the balmy air of spring—
The Mayflower—oh, the Mayflower!—sweet of scent and fair to see,
How we hail thee in the spring time, chosen flower of Acadie!
There's the robin, plaintive fluting in the budding boughs above,
And the cat-bird sweetly warbling for the pleasure of his love;
Are they telling the old story, how a gentle Indian maid,
Vainly seeking her lost lover, through the forest tireless strayed?
The Mayflower—oh, the Mayflower!—sweet of scent and fair to see,
All the woodland feels thy fragrance, chosen flower of Acadie!
And the cat-bird sweetly warbling for the pleasure of his love;
Are they telling the old story, how a gentle Indian maid,
Vainly seeking her lost lover, through the forest tireless strayed?
The Mayflower—oh, the Mayflower!—sweet of scent and fair to see,
All the woodland feels thy fragrance, chosen flower of Acadie!
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