Wild bramble of the brake 
So put thou forth thy small white rose : 
I love it for his sake. 
Though woodbine flaunt and roses glow 
O’er all the fragrant bowers, 
Thou need’st not be ashamed to show 
Thy satin-threaded flowers. 
The Primrose to the grave is gone, 
The Hawthorn flower is dead ; 
The Violet by the moss’d gray stone 
Hath laid her weary head ; 
But thou wild bramble, back doth bring 
