



286 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
“Prin-go-bragh !”—he pluck’ dthy trefoil’dstem, 
And vow’d a vow by holy Patrick’s shrine, 
A “SHamrock” chaplet for a diadem, 
Erin’s, green Erin’s, burnish’d helm should 
twine. 
He pass’d away!—that mail-clad warrior bold— 
Still thou liv’dst on, meek Sorrel, as of yore ; 
Then came some village leech, down bentand old, 
And placed thee in his widely gather’d store. 
Though long he mused upon thy healing power, 
The names he gave, uncouth they were, and 
rude; 
“Srupwort,’ he call’d thee, ‘* Oxattn,” 
*« Woop-souUrR.” 
That by his skill the cooling draught imbued, 
The unlearn’d peasant loves thy fragile form, 
And gipsy children seek thy mossy bed; 
When days are long, and April suns are warm, 
They laugh, and say, thou art “ Tur Cuckoo's 
BREAD.” 
Emblem of “ Joy!”—thou hail’st the dawning 
day ; 
And pious cottage dames yet love to tell 
The careless urchins how thou turn’st to pray, 
And ring’st the matins on thy fairy bell, 

