The Flower

Alone, across a foreign plain,
The Exile slowly wanders.
And on his Isle beyond the main
With sadden'd spirit ponders:

This lovely Isle beyond the sea,
With all its household treasures;
Its cottage homes, its merry birds,
And all its rural pleasures:

Its leafy woods, its shady vales.
Its moors, and purple heather;
Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars
His childhood loved to gather:

When lo! he starts, with glad surprise,
Home-joys come rushing o'er him.
For "modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd,"
He spies the flower before him!

With eager haste he stoops him down,
His eyes with moisture hazy.
And as he plucks the simple bloom,
He murmurs,
"Lawk-a-daisy!"