The Garden.
Come, dear little friend,
To the garden we'll go,
I've water'd my rose-plants,
Come see how they grow.
The first one that blossoms,
My mother's must be,
For as I watch these rose-buds.
She watch'd over me.
Here, here are some pinks,
For your bosom and hair,
'T is the pencil of Heaven
That hath dy'd them so fair.
How thick the young violets
Spring up at our feet;
Let us love the kind hand
That hath made them so sweet.
Is it time for our school?
Then we'll thither repair,
And the smile of our teachers
Will welcome us there.