
I witt not sing the mossy rose, || 
The jasmine sweet, or lily fair, | 
The tints the rich carnation shows, 
The stock’s sweet scent that fills the air. || 
Full many a bard has sung their praise || 
In metres smooth, and polished line; | 
A simple flower and humbler lays 
May best befit a pen like mine. 
There is a small but lovely flower, 
With crimson star and calyx brown, 
On pathway side, beneath the bower, | 
By Nature’s hand profusely strown. 
Inquire you when this floweret springs ?— 
When Nature wakes to nurth and love, 
When all her fragrance summer flings, 
When latest autumn chills the grove. 
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Like the sweet bird whose name it bears, 
’Midst falling leaves and fading flowers, || 
The passing traveller it cheers, 
In shorten d days and darksome hours. 
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