Song* of the Linncean Tribes. 59 



SONG OF THE PENTANDRIAN TRIBES 



Oh talk not of Araby's spice-scented gales, 

 Come wander awhile in our own fertile vales, 

 Sweet blossoms are springing wherever we tread, 

 And the Woodbine is hanging its wreaths overhead. 



Its graceful boughs by the night winds are bent, 

 And how sweetly they give out their fragrant scent. 

 Say canst thou envy Araby now, 

 Or ask for a garland to twine round thy brow 1 



Oh talk not of India's rose-hung bowers, 

 And the hues of rainbow-tinted flowers, 

 Look thou on our rich and varied store, 

 And envy the gardens of Gul no more. 



SONG OF THE HEXANDRIAN TRIBES. 



Fair blossoms o'er thy path we fling, 

 Narcissus, peerless flower of spring, 

 And the Vale Lily, lo ! we bring. 



With Calamus we strew the bower, 



But Bethlehem's Star shall be the flower 

 To guide us through the darkest hour. 



SONG OF THE HEPTANDRIAN TRIBES. 

 We turned with untiring zeal to explore 

 The tangled wood and the Highland Moor, 

 And there the hermit flower was seen, 

 The lone and the lowly Wintergreen. 

 Chief of a single tribe, to thee 

 We bring the prize on bended knee. 



SONG OF THE OCTANDRIAN TRIBES. 

 Like bold Robin Hood and his merry men, 



In the good green wood 'tis our joy to roam, 

 We deepen the shade of the forest glen, 



And our branches we wave round the peasant's home. 



A feast of sweet berries to cheer him we spread 

 When he comes in our sylvan shade to recline, 



The Heather we give for his rustic bed, 

 And the Maple bowl for his honeyed wine. 



We enrich the young shepherds who fly to our bower 

 With many a prize for their favorite maids, 



And we crown our gifts with the Truelove flower, 

 Which unfolds its green leaves in our forest glades. 



