HAREBELL. 
26 
THE HAREBELL. 
SCOTT. 
“ For me,”—she stooped, and, looking round, 
Plucked a blue harebell from the ground,— 
“ For me, whose memory scarce conveys 
An image of more splendid days, 
This little flower, that loves the lea, 
May well my simple emblem be ; 
It drinks heaven’s dew blithe as the rose 
That in the king’s own garden grows; 
And when I place it in my hair, 
Allan, a bard, is bound to swear 
He ne’er saw coronet so fair.” 
