109 
Thou may St be met on each open moor, 
’Mong gorse and ling. 
Thou common thing ! 
Thy paltry blossoms the children poor. 
And gypsies, bring 
Bound up in bundles to sweep the street. 
And art thou for our high presence meet ? 
We have been bred up with tenderest care; 
We know not the breath of the common air; 
Our delicate stems and modelled forms 
Are shielded from winds, and frosts, and storms; 
For we are the beautiful, great, and rare; 
But what ai’e ye ? 
H ow can ye see 
Our stately pride, yet boldly dare 
Presumptuously 
To raise your heads of humble name 
With us, who have titles, and rank, and fame ? 
WILD HEATHER. 
Buds of the mountain and moor are we. 
The dear and the gleesome, the feai'less and free 
Our strong stems shrink not from storm nor rain. 
We shake off the tears, and laugh out again. 
