Classic Poem

As some brave, warm-hearted rill,
Though ice-prisoned, works its will;
Melting, melting, through the hours,
Till its margins burst in flowers;
So a vein of Scottish blood
Surely brings its banks to bud
And to bloom with blossoms fair—
Kindness, humor debonair.
Since, then, underneath the mask
Of our English names there bask
Streams that savor more of sun,
Strains from ancient clansmen run,
Fit it is I ask you tarry
Here at “Tillyloss” with Barrie—
Painter rare of Scotland's wiles,
Scotland's tears and Scotland's smiles!