8 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
She aye looks on me kindly, 
An’ meets me wi’ a smile, 
An’ by her side, in dreamy joy, 
Lang hours I aft beguile— 
Lang hours I aft beguile ; 
Yet in her dark blue e’e, 
There’s something says her heart is cauld—= 
That Mary lo’es na me. 
They say she lo’es anither, 
An’ I need hope nae mair, 
They speak 0’ some wi? as bright een, 
An’ wi’ a brow as fair— 
An’ wi’ a brow as fair; 
But they nae joy can gi’e: 
My heart will aye be Mary’s still, 
Though she should ne’er lo’e me, 
FLOWERS. 
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars that in earth’s firmament do shine. 
Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 
As astrologers and seers of eld; 

