58 
FLORAL POESY. 
Though no gold ore veins thee, though no grape-juice 
stains thee, 
We’ve harvest fields, and quartered shields, well kept 
and nobly won. 
And we have pleasant tales to tell, 
And spot in many a native dell, 
Which we may prize and love as well 
As Troubadour his story. 
The lilting troll and roundelay 
Will nfiver, never pass away, 
That welcomed in the herald day 
Of Summer’s rosy glory. 
And goodly sight of mirth and might, 
In blood that gained us Cressy’s fight, 
Was hearts and eyes, all warm and bright 
About the high and gay pole ; 
When flower bedight, ’mid leaves and light, 
Shouts echoed—as it reared upright— 
Of “ Hurrah for merry England, and the raising 
of the Maypole ! ” 
When the good old times had carol rhymes, 
With morris games and village chimes ; 
When clown and priest shared cup and feast. 
And the greatest jostled with the least. 
At the “ raising of the Maypole ! ” 
My brave land ! my brave land ! oh ! mayest thou be 
my grave-land ; 
For firm and fond will be the bond that ties my 
heart to thee. 
When Summer’s beams are glowing, when Autumn’s 
gusts are blowing, 
When Winter’s clouds are snowing, thou art still 
right dear to me. 
