The "Bull Spring."

A poem by George W. Doneghy

When the burning sun of Summer shines from out a brassy sky,
And has parched and browned the meadows, and the creek's run dry,
O sweet it is to wander there and hear the water sing
It's rippling song of gladness from the
Old
"Bull
Spring!"

Since Logan and the pioneers first stood upon its bank,
And heard it gurgle from the rock, and of its waters drank,
With ceaseless music in its flow, like silvery chimes that ring,
Has been the song of gladness from the
Old
"Bull
Spring!"

Around about the fields and woods of old "Magnolia" spread--
Indigenous to "tansy"--"mint"--and the lithe-limbed thoroughbred;
And far above, on drowsy wing, the crow seems listening
To the rippling song of gladness from the
Old
"Bull
Spring!"

No music that I've ever heard seems half so soft and sweet
As that in silvery tones it makes while flowing at your feet;
And sometimes when I'm far away I'd give most anything
To hear the song of gladness from the
Old
"Bull
Spring!"

'Tis then that fancy wanders, and I sit and fondly dream
That I'm gazing in its liquid depths and see the pebbles gleam,
As when in happy childhood, and free from sorrow's sting,
I heard the song of gladness from the
Old
"Bull
Spring!"

And I sniff again the flavor of the aromatic breeze
From the mint-bed and the tansy, as it floated through the trees,
And hear music mingle of the birds upon the wing
With the laughing song of gladness from the
Old
"Bull
Spring!"