LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
TO DAFFODILS. 
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon ; 
As yet, the early-rising sun 
Has not attained its noon. 
Stay, stay, 
Until the hastening day 
Has run 
But to the even song ; 
And having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 
We have short time to stay as you, 
We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you or any thing. 
We die, 
As your hours do, and dry 
Away, 
Like to the summer’s rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew, 
Ne’er to be found again. 
Robert Herrick. 
CONS TANC V 
Lay a garland on my hearse 
Of the dismal yew ; 
Maidens willow branches bear; 
Say, 1 died true. 
My love was false, but I was firm 
From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 
Lightly, gentle earth ! 
Samuel Fletcher. 
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 
Wi’ toddlin din, 
Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stems, 
Frae lin to lin. 
Mourn little harebells o’er the lee ; 
Y e stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 
In scented bow’rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 
The first o’ flow’rs. 
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev’n, when beans their fragrance shed, 
I’ th’ rustling gale. 
Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade. 
Come join my wail. 
Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ; 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear, 
For him that’s dead ! 
Thou, autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair, 
I n grief thy sallow mantle tear! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the air 
The roaring blast, 
Wide o’er the naked world declare 
The worth we’ve lost ! 
Burns. 
71 
