7° 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Each bud unblown is swelling, love, 
Green grow the vernal fields; 
Each insect leaves its dwelling, love, 
And all to Summer yields : 
The mowers are out haying, love, 
Woodbine is in full blow— 
Where we will go a-Maying, love, 
Where we will Maying go. 
GOING A-MAYING. 
ELIZA COOK. 
My own land ! my own land! where freedom finds her 
throne-land 3 
Fair thou art, and rare thou art, to every true-born son. 
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 never, 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 
