rOETEY OF ELOWEES. 
247 
THE WITHERED FLOWER. 
The flowers o’ the simmer-time, 
A’ in brown-leaf sbrouds are lying ; 
The nor’ wind is swirling the driven snaw, 
An’ tossing the white flakes or e’er they fa’, 
To hide where a’ lay a dying :— 
But my flower is withered an’ winna re-bloom 1 
The birks in the erie glen 
Their leafless bows a’ wide are tossing; 
The sough frae the upland forest seems 
As in wild faem a thousand mountain streams 
Frae rock to den were crossing ;— 
An’ my flower is withered and winna re-bloom. 
The spring maun return again, 
Opening the fresh buds o’ ilka flower, 
Drappin’ the gowans o’er strath an’ lea; 
Buskin’ wi’ blossom ilk buss an’ tree. 
Blessing a’ nature wi’ walth o’ dower ;— 
But my flower is withered an’ winna re-bloom. 
Till ance this waefu’ warld 
Its last flowers a’ withered, its wnys a toom, 
An nought for a lap to the lanesome dying, 
But the graves whar death’s latest plenish is lying, 
