THE FLAX-FLOWER. '65 
Ah, ’tis a goodly little thing, 
It groweth for the poor, 
And many a peasant blesses it, 
Beside his cottage-door. 
He thinketh how those slender stems 
That shimmer in the sun, 
Are rich for him in web and woof, 
And shortly shall be spun. 
He thinketh how those tender flowers, 
Of seed will yield him store ; 
And sees in thought his next-year’s crop 
Blue shining round his door. 
Oh, the little flax-flower! 
The mother, then says she, 
‘‘ Go pull the thyme, the heath, the fern, 
But let the flax-flower be! 
It groweth for the children’s sake, 
It groweth for our own; 
There are flowers enough upon the hill, 
But leave the flax alone! 
The farmer hath his fields of wheat, 
Much cometh to his share ; 
We have this little plot of flax, 
That we have tilled with care. 
