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Mild be the Sun on this sweet blushing flower.
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower.
That steals on the evening, each leaf to renew.
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes.
With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn!
And far be’ thou distant thou reptile that seizest
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn.
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lillie,
And England, triumphant, display her proud
rose;
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies.
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘o❘
BLYTHE WAS SHE.
By Oughtertyre grows the aik,
on Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
than braes of Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Blythe by the banks of Ern,
And blythe in Gln-turit glen.
