HEATHER LAYS. 



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 haughty, the high, and the proud, 

 Not to Clotilda, who sails through the crowd 

 With a lofty look and a fine disdain, 

 As if all were born to hold her train ; 



But beautiful Phoebe, to thee, to thee, 



Thou mild-eyed Phoebe, to thee ! 



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 clever, the keen, and the knowing, 

 With eye never resting, and tongue ever going, 

 Not to Rebecca, who all has read 

 That goes, and goes not into hear head ; 



But beautiful Phoebe, to thee, to thee, 



Thou silently-loving, to thee ! 



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



To whom shall I give it? 



To whom shall I give it? 

 I'll give it to one, or I'll give it to none, 

 I'll give it to Phoebe, my beautiful one; 

 The rare white bloom that peeps from the brae 

 So chaste and so pure 'mid the purple display ; 



It grew, dear Phoebe, for thee, for thee, 



Thou rarest and fairest, for thee! 



John Stuart Blackie. 

 214 



