34 Ptolft. 
The Violet in her greenwood bower, 
Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle, 
May boast herself the fairest flower, 
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 
Scott. 
Under the hedge all safe and warm, 
Sheltered from boisterous wind and storm, 
We Violets lie: 
With each small eye 
Closely shut while the cold goes by. 
You look at the bank, mid the biting frost, 
And you sigh, and say that we’re dead and lost; 
But, Lady stay 
For a sunny day, 
And you’ll find us again, alive and gay. 
On mossy banks, under forest trees, 
You’ll find us crowding, in days like these; 
Purple and blue, 
And white ones too, 
Peep at the sun, and wait for you. 
By maids and matrons, by old and young, 
By rich and poor, our praise is sung; 
And the blind man sighs 
When his sightless eyes 
He turns to the spot where our perfumes rise. 
There is not a garden, the country through, 
Where they plant not Violets, white and blue; 
By princely hall, 
And cottage small—■ 
For we’re sought, and cherished, and culled by all. 
