200 THE violet’s spking song. 
And the blind man sighs 
When his sightless eyes 
He turns to the spot where our perfumes rise. 
There is not a garden the country through, 
Where they plant not violets white and blue ; 
By princely hall, 
And cottage small— 
For we’re sought, and cherished, and culled by all. 
Yet grand parterres, and stiff-trimmed beds. 
But ill become our modest heads ; 
We’d rather run. 
In shadow and sun. 
O’er the banks where our merry lives first begun. 
There, where the birken bough’s silvery shine 
Gleams over the hawthorn and frail woodbine. 
Moss, deep and green. 
Lies thick, between 
The plots where we violet-flowers are seen. 
And the small gay Celandine’s stars of gold 
Rise sparkling beside our purple’s fold:— 
Such a regal show 
Is rare, I trow. 
Save on the banks were violets grow. 
