109
Thou may'st be met on each open moor,
'Mong gorse and ling,
Thou common thing!
Thy paltry blossoms the children poor,
And gypsies, bring
Bound up in bundles to sweep the street;
And art thou for our high presence meet?
We have been bred up with tenderest care;
We know not the breath of the common air;
Our delicate stems and modelled forms
Are shielded from winds, and frosts, and storms;
For we are the beautiful, great, and rare;
But what are ye?
How can ye see
Our stately pride, yet boldly dare
Presumptuously
To raise your heads of humble name
With us, who have titles, and rank, and fame?
WILD HEATHER.
Buds of the mountain and moor are we,
The dear and the gleesome, the fearless and free!
Our strong stems shrink not from storm nor rain,
We shake off the tears, and laugh out again.
