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THE CFRESS WREATH. 0 
Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended roses, bought so dear; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With heath and harebell dipp’d in dew; 
On favour’d Erin’s crest be seen 
The flower she loves of emerald green— 
But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
The ivy meet for minstrel’s bair; 
And while his crown of lautel leaves 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
But when you hear the passing bell. 
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, 
And twine it of the cypress-tree. 
Yes! twine for me the cypress bough; 
But, 0 Matilda, twine not now— 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I have look’d and loved my last! 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue— 
Then,lady, weave a wreath for me, 
And weave it of the cypress-tree. 
—Sir W. Scott. 
