4
And now I must die an old maid,
O dear, how shocking a thought!
And all my beauty must fade,
but I'm sure it is not my own fault.
For its O dear &c.
THE MOUNTAIN FLOWER.
My love can boast a sweeter flow’r
Than can be seen in cultur’d bow’r,
Where gently falls the simmer-show’r,
Upon the opening blossom.
This early flow’r on mountain’ side,
Bedecks the slope where streamlets glide,
In haste to meet the ocean’s tide,
Which guards its native shore.
I love to seek the Primrose pale,
That bends before the vernal gale,
Which softly breathes along the vale,
When Winter’s storm is o’er.
In Primrose pale I sometimes trace,
The sweetness of my Lucy’s face ;
The tender heart, that stamps the grace,
That blooms when roses wither.
CALADONIA.
Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
