200 THE VIOLET'S SPUING SONO. 



And the blind man sighs 



When his sightless eyes 

 He turns to the spot where our perfumes rise. 

 There is not a garden the country through, 

 Where they plant not violets white and blue ; 



By princely hall, 



And cottage small 



For we're sought, and cherished, and culled by all. 

 Yet grand parterres, and stiff-trimmed beds, 

 But ill become our modest heads ; 



We'd rather run, 



In shadow and sun, 



O'er the banks where our merry lives first begun. 

 There, where the birken bough's silvery shine 

 Gleams over the hawthorn and frail woodbine, 



Moss, deep and green, 



Lies thick, between .*<>* 

 The plots where we violet-flowers are seen. 

 And the small gay Celandine's stars of gold 

 Rise sparkling beside our purple's fold : 



Such a regal show 



Is rare, I trow, 

 Save on the banks were violets grow. 



