FLOWER of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns
For thee the brake and tangled wood,--
To thy protecting shade she runs,
Thy tender buds supply her food;
Her young forsake her downy plumes
To rest upon thy opening blooms.
Flower of the desert tho' thou art!
The deer that range the mountain free,
The graceful doe, the stately hart,
Their food of shelter seek from thee;
The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
And draws from thee her choicest sweets.
Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor;
Tho' thou dispense no rich perfume,
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valour's crest and beauty's bower,
Oft hast thou deck'd, a favourite flower.

Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,
Nor garden's artful, varied pride,
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.
Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild,
Of peace and freedom seems to breathe;
To pluck thy blossoms in the wild,
And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.
Flower of his dear-lov'd native land!
Alas, when distant, far more dear!
When he from some cold foreign strand,
Looks homeward thro' the blinding tear,
How must his aching heart deplore,
That home and thee he sees no more!