POETRY

Ellen Vale by E.A Underhill Have you never seen sweet Ellen Vale, Or roamed the spacious park? Or sensed the perfumed clover, Or heard the trilling lark? 'Tis fine to walk the meadows, When the grass has turned to hay. What beauty, oh what pleasure, Upon a summer's day. The mighty chestnuts reach afar, Their boughs across the lea, And when the bloom is on them, How fair a sight to see. And as you near the Abbey Farm, Just turn around and look, For yonder is the great, White Hall, As 'twere from Artist's book. What memories, what merry times, It seems but yesterday, When happy children marched along, And piped a hymnal lay. With flags and silken banners spread, From Sunday schools around, They gathered to the Park and Hall, To the drum and fife's glad sound. A happy and a noisy band, They romp across the lea, It is the children's festival, Now is the time for tea. Upon the green grass sit they down, And when grace has been said; The good things soon, are handed round, What fun to see them fed. And good St. Paul*, he comes along, He loves to see the sight, He scatters coppers all round, It gives him great delight. To see the children scramble, For the pennies on the lea, He bursts with peals of laughter, Such a boistrous sight to see. But when the red sun's dipping, Below the horizon And the birds are softly twittering, And the long, long day is done, You'll see the children wandering Along the coach road lone, For they are tired and ready, For their restful beds at home And for a year, they talk of all They did on Gala day, And forward look for that glad time, When it comes once more their way. * Sir Horace Saint Paul, Bart.

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