HEATHER LAYS. 



For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland, 



Alack and well a-day ! 

 For ilka hand is free to pu' 



An' steal the gem away. 

 But the thistle in her bonnet blue 



Still bobs aboon them a' ; 

 At her the bravest darena blink, 



Or gi'e his mou' a thraw. 



Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, 



The emblems o' the free, 

 Their guardians for a thousand years, 



Their guardians still we'll be. 

 A fie had better brave the deil 



Within his reeky cell, 

 Than our thistle's purple bonnet, 



Or bonny heather-bell. 

 James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. 



A Sprig of White Heather 



A sprig of white heather I pluck'd on the brae; 



To whom shall I give it? 



To whom shall I give it? 

 Not to the sportive, the light, and the gay, 

 Not to Jessie with flashing display, 

 In the flush of June, when the roses are out, 

 Flinging her frolicsome fancies about ; 



But beautiful Phoebe, to thee, to thee, 



Thou deep-thoughted Phoebe, to thee! 



213 



