Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed By the odour of myrrh on the breeze; In the isles of the East and the West That are sweet with the cinnamon trees: Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas, Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete, We are more than content, if you please, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best With the scent of the limes, when the bees Hummed low round the doves in their nest, While the vintagers lay at their ease; Had he sung in our Northern degrees, He'd have sought a securer retreat, He'd have dwelt, where the heart of us flees, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! O the broom has a chivalrous crest, And the daffodil's fair on the leas, And the soul of the Southron might rest, And be perfectly happy with these; But we that were nursed on the knees Of the hills of the North, we would fleet Where our hearts might their longing appease With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! ENVOY. Ah! Constance, the land of our quest, It is far from the sounds of the street, Where the Kingdom of Galloway's blest With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! ANDREW LANG. Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bog-Myrtle and Peat, by S.R. Crockett