LANGUACE OF FLOWERS. 
A RED , RED ROSE. 
Tune—“ Wishaw's favourite." 
O, my luve’s like a red, red rose, 
That’s newly sprung in June : 
O, my luve’s like the melodie 
That’s sweetly play’d in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 
So deep in luve am I ; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 
Till a’ the seas gang dry. 
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt w’ the sun ; 
T will luve thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o’ life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 
And fare thee weel a while ; 
And I will come again, my luve, 
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. 
Burns. 
Virgins promised when I died. 
That they would each primrose-tide 
Duly, morn and evening, come. 
And with flowers dress my tomb. 
—Having promised, pay your debts, 
Maids, and here strew violets. 
Robert Herrick. 
Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory ; 
Odours when sweet violets sicken, 
Love within the sense they quicken. 
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed ; 
And so thy thoughts when thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 
Shelley. 
Radiant sister of the day 
Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 
To the wild woods and the plains, 
To the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves, 
Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 
Round stems that never kiss the sun, 
Where the lawns and pastures be 
And the sandhills of the sea, 
Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy star that never sets, 
And wind-flowers and violets 
Which yet join not scent to hue 
Crown the pale year weak and new ; 
When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dim and blind, 
And the blue moon is over us, 
And the multitudinous 
Billows murmur at our feet, 
Where the earth and ocean meet 
And all things seem only one 
In the universal sun. 
P. B. Shelley. 
