A primrose on a river's brim

Only a primrose was to him

And nothing more.

As a slight token that he has not forgot Primrose Day, my good friend, Mr. John Smith (auld C) of Alyth, sings :—

O, the bonnie, bonnie primrose,

Sae fairy-formed an' sweet!
There's no anither flower that grows

Can e'er wi' it compete.

It sweetly blinks upon the bank,
Blooms bonnie in the dell,
An' Spring wid be a dreary blank
Withoot its magic spell.

Nae wirds can tell the joys sublime
It yields to childhood's eyes;
What ither bloom retains its prime
Till Summer flooers arise ?
An' far an' near its clusters spread
Wi' Nature for its guide;

It fills the woodland, lea, an' glade,
An' climbs the mountain's side.

The yellow linnet near it sits
To warble oot its sang;

O, I cou'd lis'en to its lilts,

Nor think the day owre lang.

O, ye bonnie, bonnie primrose !
My heart-strings still you'll thrill;
And till life's day draws to a close,
I'll sing your praises still.

The common primrose, Primula Vulgaris, adorns the woods and groves and umbrageous banks and grassy wastes, and other similar places of most parts of Britain; and is, or ought to be, known to everybody as one of the most charming of our wild flowers. Its root is somewhat fleshy, and has long fibres; its leaves are radical, numerous, obovate-oblong, unequally-toothed, soft, wrinkled, and slightly downy, and stands on short, broad footstalks; and its flowers are generally solitary, but sometimes unbelled, and are large, numerous, and sulphur-coloured, with a darker radiating central spot, and bloom from March till June. The Scottish primrose, Primula Scotica, is a native of the lofty

mountains of the Scottish Highlands.

It is somewhat akin to the mealy primrose, and quite resembles it in the colour of the flowers and in the time of blooming; but its mealiness is yellower, and spreads more or less over both surfaces of the leaves.

In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome,
From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia we come,
Where the Romans endeavour'd our country to gain,
But our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain.

We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale,
And swift as the roe which the hound doth assail,
As the full moon in autumn our shields do appear;
Een Minerva would dread to encounter our spear.

In our realm may the fury of faction long cease,

May our councils be wise and our commerce increase;

And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find

That our friends still prove true, and our beauties prove kind.