(Written in her fourteenth year.)

Thou pretty wee flower, humble thing,
Thou brightest jewel of the heath,
Which waves at zephyr's tightest wing,
And trembles at the softest breath;

Thou lovely bud of Scotia's land,
Thou pretty fragrant burnie gem,
By whisp'ring breezes thou art fann'd
And greenest leaves entwine thy stem.

No raging tempest beats thee down,
Or finds thee in thy safe retreat;
By no rough wint'ry winds thou'rt blown,
Safe seated at the dark rock's feet.