The sands are alive with sunshine, The bathers lounge and throng, And out in the bay a bugle Is lilting a gallant song.
The clouds go racing eastward, The blithe wind cannot rest, And a shard on the shingle flashes Like the shining soul of a jest;
While children romp in the surges, And sweethearts wander free, And the Firth as with laughter dimples . . .
I would it were deep over me!
1875
