Song

Rose, and violet, and pansy.
Each has told a tale of love,
Various with the freak of fancy.
Apt and bold the fields to rove,

See the pansy ;
Seek her not in secret grove.

Rose of summer, lovely creature !
Who did ever look on thee.
But beheld the very feature
Which he most was glad to see, —

Fairest, dearest,
Whosoe'er the dear may be ?

Long ago, when I was roaming.
In a shady path I met,
Dim and blue as summer gloaming,
Far apart from all the rest,

Meek and lowly,
Her, my own dear violet.