Bedlam-cowslips and cuckoos, With freck'd lip and hooked nose, Growing safe near the hazel of thicket and woods, And water blobs, ladies' smocks, Blooming where haycocks May be found, in the meadows, low places, and floods. And cowslips a fair band For May ball or garland, That bloom in the meadows as seen by the eye; And pink ragged robin, Where the fish they are bobbing Their heads above water to catch at the fly. Wild flowers and wild roses! 'T is love makes the posies To paint Summer ballads of meadow and glen. Floods can't drown it nor turn it, Even flames cannot burn it; Let it bloom till we walk the green meadows again. THE MARCH NOSEGAY The bonny March morning is beaming In mingled crimson and grey, White clouds are streaking and creaming The sky till the noon of the day; The fir deal looks darker and greener, And grass hills below look the same; The air all about is serener, The birds less familiar and tame. Here's two or three flowers for my fair one, Wood primroses and celandine too; I oft look about for a rare one To put in a posy for you. The birds look so clean and so neat, Though there's scarcely a leaf on the grove; The sun shines about me so sweet, I cannot help thinking of love. So where the blue violets are peeping, By the warm sunny sides of the woods, And the primrose, 'neath early morn weeping, Amid a large cluster of buds, (The morning it was such a rare one, So dewy, so sunny, and fair,) I sought the wild flowers for my fair one, To wreath in her glossy black hair. LEFT ALONE Left in the world alone, Where nothing seems my own, And everything is weariness to me, 'T is a life without an end, 'T is a world without a friend, And everything is sorrowful I see. There's the crow upon the stack, And other birds all black, While bleak November's frowning wearily; And the black cloud's dropping rain, Till the floods hide half the plain, And everything is dreariness to me. The sun shines wan and pale, Chill blows the northern gale, And odd leaves shake and quiver on the tree, While I am left alone, Chilled as a mossy stone, And all the world is frowning over me. TO MARY Mary, I love to sing About the flowers of Spring, For they resemble thee. In the earliest of the year Thy beauties will appear, And youthful modesty. Here's the daisy's silver rim, With gold eye never dim, Spring's earliest flower so fair. Here the pilewort's golden rays Set the cow green in a blaze, Like the sunshine in thy hair. Here's forget-me-not so blue; Is there any flower so true? Can it speak my happy lot? When we courted in disguise This flower I used to prize, For it said "Forget-me-not." Speedwell! And when we meet In the meadow paths so sweet, Where the flowers I gave to thee All grew beneath the sun, May thy gentle heart be won, And I be blest with thee.