POETRY OF FLOWERS. 7 
Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald out of dire December ; 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours; 
And ’mid the roses ne’er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 
SUMMER WILL SPREAD HER ROSES, 
SumMER will spread her roses 
O’er mountain and o’er lea, 
The wee blithe birdies ’mang the weeds 
Will sing wi’ joyous glee— 
Will sing wi’ joyous glee, 
For a’ shall happy be; 
Yet I will aye be lane at heart, 
Since Mary lo’es na me. 
Her cheek is fair and blooming, 
Her een are bonnie blue, 
Her lips are like the wild moss rose 
When moistened o’er wi’ dew.— 
When moistened o’er wi’ dew, : 
They would be sweet to pree, 
Yet I can never taste sic bliss, 
For Mary lo’es na me. 

