72 SUNGS OF THE FLOWERS. 
If the received characteristic of the flower be cheerful, tlie author 
trusts that its song is so arranged as to image that cheerfulness : if, on. 
the contrary, it be symbolic of grief, that a correspondent tone pervades 
its plaint. 
Those flowers, to which classic or other legends belong, preserve. 
their old traditions, and tell of them in their songs; and in the choruses 
(one for each season’s congregated flowers) a rude endeayour is made 
to bring the cheerfulness of Spring into pleasing contrast with the 
sadness of Winter. 
NO. 1.--SONG OF THE PRIMROSE. 
BY JOHN DUGGAN, ESQ. 
Hark ! I hear the soft peal of my fairy-love’s bell, 
As he calls me to ’wake from my trance in this dell, 
Where through the dark Winter I slept, while bright gleams 
Of Spring’s coming joy soothed my wind-cradled dreams. 
Now the tempests are gone; and rude Winter’s afar 
In the bleak icy north, where no pretty flowers are ; : 
And on rose-coloured wings glides dear Spring to the earth— 
Lo! she breathes o’er this bank, and sweet sisters have birth! 
Spring, gentle Spring ; why so long didst thou stay ? 
Dearest mother! ah, promise thou'lt ne’er pass away 
From thy children, who love thee, and live in thy look ; 
Who languish and die when by thee they’re forsook, 
Thou art kindest mother! I feel thy sweet kiss, 
And no fear of drear Winter o’ershadows my bliss. 
Come forth lovely sisters, and hie through the dale, 
While, like coy nymphs, we blush, fondly wooed by the gale. 
See! the butterfly comes through the hawthorn glade, 
To tell to his Primrose what conquests he made ; 
*‘ That his heart ’s all mine own ”—this his tale is to me— 
“That I still am his lady-love, queen of the lea :” 
Yet while he plays the rover, and flirts in far bowers, 
Many lovers come courting me—bees, flies, and flowers ; 
With these rivals I laugh; and if modest and meek 
I, at times, allow one to salute my soft cheek. 
Thus I pass the bright day ; and now dew-bringing eve, 
Round the deep cloud of gold which the day-splendours leave, 
Hangs a rich purple fringe, spreading far in the West, 
Till its folds on the dim mountain top seem to rest. 
Ere I close my meek lids comes the glow-worm nigh, 
And he lights his love-lamp with a gleam from mine eye; 
While my crimson-leayed sister, the Ev’ning Primrose, 
Richer shines in the rays her lamp-lover bestows. 
As my nodding head ’s drooping, night dews o’er me weep, 
And the black-beetle’s lullaby huis me to sleep. 
Then my dreams give me back all the joys of the day— 
Dost thou envy the Primrose her happiness, say ? 
