IV 

 THE ROSE 



A Rose in the garden slipped her bud 

 And smiled in the pride of her youthful blood 

 As she saw the gardener passing by 

 " He's old, so old, he soon will die," 



Said the Rose. 



And when morning came with sunshine bright 

 She opened her warm red heart to the light, 

 And sighed as the gardener passed the bed 

 " Why he's older still, he'll soon be dead." 



But evening closed with a cold night air 



And the petals fell from that rose so fair, 



And when morning dawned came the gardener old 



And raked them softly under the mould. 



And I wove the thing to a random rhyme 

 For the Rose is Beauty, the gardener Time. 



From memory, 



Author unknown, 



R. F. FELTON. 



ARDENT patriots have been known to cavil at 

 Richard Cceur de Lion for his adoption of St. 



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