134 
SONG OF THE HIVE BEE. 
The common 9 $ rude plain 
is no desert to me; 
For there blooms the heather 
profusely and free; 
And the harebell is waving 
her head to the wind, 
And the vetch her blue wreath 
with the ragwort has twin’d; 
And the sweet-scented thyme 
every hillock has crown’d* 
And the blossoming furze 
sheds its perfume around: 
I eall this my manor— 
my ample domain* 
Where all owe me tribute, 
nor owe it in vain* 
