HEATHER LAYS. 



Flower of my heart! thy fragrance mild, 

 Of peace and freedom seem to breathe; 



To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, 



And deck my bonnet with the wreath, 



Where dwelt of old my rustic sires, 



Is all my simple wish requires. 



Flower of my dear-loved native land ! 



Alas! when distant, far more dear, 

 When I, from some cold foreign strand, 



Look homeward through the blinding tear, 

 How must my aching heart deplore 

 That home and thee, I see no more ! 



Mrs. Grant, of Laggan. 



The Flowers of Scotland 



What are the flowers of Scotland, 



All others that excel 

 The lovely flowers of Scotland, 



All others that excel? 

 The thistle's purple bonnet, 



And bonny heather-bell, 

 O, they're the flowers of Scotland, 



All others that excel! 



Though England eyes her roses 



With pride she'll ne'er forego, 

 The rose has oft been trodden 



By foot of haughty foe ; 

 But the thistle in her bonnet blue 



Still nods outow'r the fell, 

 And dares the proudest foeman 



To tread the heather-bell. 



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