Drawn by what peculiar spell,
By what charm for sight or smell,
Comfort have thou of thy merit,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Prophet of delight and mirth,
TO THE SAME FLOWER.
PLEASURES newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet:
February last, my heart
First at sight of thee was glad;
All unheard of as thou art,
Thou must needs, I think, have had,
Celandine! and long ago,
Praise of which I nothing know.
I have not a doubt but he,
Soon as gentle breezes bring
Often have I sighed to measure
Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
Thou art not beyond the moon,
THE SEVEN SISTERS;
THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.
SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,
You could not say in one short day
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie!