WILD FLOWERS. 83 
Like my love: for I ’ve no power, 
My angel, Mary Lee, 
To speak, unless the flower 
Can make excuse for me. 
Though they deck no princely halls, 
In bouquets for glittering balls, 
My gentle Mary Lee! 
Richer hues than painted walls 
Will make them dear to thee; 
For the blue and laughing sky 
Spreads a grander canopy, 
Than all wealth’s golden skill, 
My charming Mary Lee! 
Love would make them dearer still, 
That offers them to thee. 
My wreathed flowers are few, 
Yet no tairer drink the dew, 
My bonny Mary Lee! 
They may seem as trifles too— 
Not I hope to thee. 
Some may boast a richer prize 
Under pride and wealth’s disguise; 
