HEATHER LAYS. 



A Sprig of Heath 



Flower of the waste! the heathfowl shuns, 

 For thee, the brake and tangled wood, 



To thy protecting shade she runs : 

 Thy tender buds supply her food ; 



Her young forsake her downy plumes, 



To rest upon thy opening blooms. 



Flower of the desert, though thou art, 



The deer that range the mountain free, 



The graceful doe, the stately hart 



Their food and shelter seek from thee ; 



The bee thy earliest blossom greets, 



And draws from thee her choicest sweets. 



Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom 

 Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor; 



Though thou dispense no rich perfume, 

 Nor yet with splendid tints allure, 



Both valour's crest and beauty's bower 



Oft hast thou deck'd a favorite flower. 



Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow 

 Adorns the dusky mountain's side, 



Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, 



Nor garden's artful varied pride, 



With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, 



Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. 



