



POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

THE WITHERED FLOWER. 
Tue flowers o’ the simmer-time, 
A’ in brown-leaf shrouds are lying ; 
The nor’ wind is swirling the driven snaw, 
An’ tossing the white flakes or e’er they fa’, 
To hide where a’ lay a dying ;— 
But my flower is withered an’ winna re-bloom ! 
The birks in the erie glen 
Their leafiess bows a’ wide are tossing 3 
The sough frae the upland forest seems 
As in wild faem a thousand mountain streams 
Frae rock to den were crossing ;— 
An’? my flower is withered and winna re-bloom. 
The spring maun return again, 
Opening the fresh buds 0’ ilka flower, 
Drappin’ the gowans o’er strath an’ lea ; 
Buskin’ wi’ blossom ilk buss an’ tree, 
Blessing a’ nature wi’ walth o’ dower ;— 
But my flower is withered an’ winna re -bloom. 
Till ance this waefu’ warld 
Tts last flowers a’ withered, its ways a’ toom, 
An nought for a lap to the lanesome dying, 
But the graves whar death’s latest plenish is lying, 

