Floral Poetry. 
Ivy she hath berries as black as any sloe, 
There come the owls and eat them as they go. 
Nay, Ivy, nay, &c. 
Holly he hath birds a full fair flock, 
The nightingale, the popinjay, the gentle laverock. 
Nay, Ivy, nay, &c. 
Good Ivy, say to us, what birds hast thou, 
None but the owlet that cries How ! How ! 
Nay, Ivy, nay, &c. 
Ancient Carols. 
THE HYACINTH. 
C HILD of the Spring, thou charming flower, 
No longer in confinement lie, 
Arise to light, thy form discover. 
Rival the azure of the sky. 
The rains are gone, the storms are o’er ; 
Winter retires to make thee way; 
Come then, thou sweetly blooming flower, 
Come, lovely stranger, come away. 
The sun is dressed in beaming smiles, 
To give thy beauties to the day : 
Young Zephyrs wait with gentlest gales, 
To fan thy bosom as they play. 
Casimir. 
