April's genial sun is shining,
Vernal clouds with 'silver lining,'
Rich and balmy dews distilling,
Flora's opening flower-cups filling
With the pearly treasure;
On her robe of freshest green,
Thousand flow'ry gems are seen
Peeping through the tender grass;
By woodland path and mountain pass
Now we stray with pleasure.
Sweet the tender, tuneful notes
Poured from thousand warbling throats;
Sweet the tale of truth and love,
Softly told by cushat-dove
In his amorous cooing.
Sweet the music of the streams,
Where the poet strays and dreams-
Where the incense he receives,
Of bursting buds and tender leaves,
While the Muses wooing.
Now, sweet Spring, my song must fail;
Other sounds and sights assail-
Sounds of cheers that swelling rise
In one vast pæan to the skies-
'Tis the welcome given
To Italia's liberator,
Lion king in heart and feature;
Sight more stirring, more sublime,
Never graced the 'march of time;'
Bless, oh bless him, heaven!
Freedom holds high jubilee
In our land, the brave and free;
Freedom's sons, we greet thee well,
Thy glorious name our cheers shall tell-
'Tis Freedom's incarnation.
See, in that stupendous mass,
Britain's sons united pass,
Waiving claims of rank and birth,
Brethren of one blood on earth,
In this sublime ovation.
Garibaldi, Scotia stands
On tip-toe with extended hands,
Glowing heart, and welcome high,
On the wings of April fly-
The land of Wallace calls.
Queen of the West, fair Glasgow's name,
Not last not least in civic fame,
Not last not least upon thy roll
Of friends-she now with heart and soul
Invites thee to her halls.