My Garden.
'Tis many, many years ago, when I was quite a child,
And at a time, too, I've been told, when I was sadly spoiled,
My mother, bless her sainted form (for she is dead and gone),
"Was speaking of a garden, and I said, "May I have one?"
"Yes, my own darling," she replied, "you shall, and very soon;"
And we picked the spot, a darling plot, that very afternoon.
Not proudest florist, though he culls bright flowers from zone to zone.
Could ever rival in effect, that garden of my own.
I think I see it now, as plain as ever it was seen,
The border made of oyster-shells, and little walks between;
The mustard and the cress I grew, the radishes so fine,
And lettuces (I don't believe there e'er was such as mine).
The daisies wild and primroses, I'd gathered in the lanes,
And violets' bloom, whose sweet perfume, right well repaid my pains.
My father, bless him! planted me a rose tree, and it grew;
I'd snowdrops, and I'd crocuses, white, yellow, striped, and blue.
Ah! those were happy times indeed, for all around was gay,
But father, mother, garden, all, alas! have passed away.
Since then I've witnessed many scenes of misery and joy;
But I've not forgot my garden yet—in fact, I do not try.
