Here are daisies,-take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower;
Of the lofty daffodil

Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom.

Primroses, the spring may love themSummer knows but little of them; Violets, a barren kind,

Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind

When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

The Blind Highland Boy.

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little boy;
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest:
This corner is your own.

There, take your seat, and let me see
That you can listen quietly;

And, as I promised, I will tell

That strange adventure which befell
A poor blind Highland boy.

A Highland boy! why call him so?
Because, my darlings, ye must know,
That under hills which rise like towers,
Far higher hills than these of ours,
He from his birth had lived.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind;

For God took pity on the boy,

And was his friend, and gave him joy
Of which we nothing know.

His mother too, no doubt, above
Her other children him did love;

For was she here, or was she there,
She thought of him with constant care,
And more than mother's love.

And proud she was of heart, when clad
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,
And bonnet with a feather gay,
To kirk he on the Sabbath-day

Went hand in hand with her.

A dog, too, had he: not for need,
But one to play with and to feed;
Which would have led him, if bereft
Of company or friends, and left

Without a better guide.

And then the bagpipes he could blow, And thus from house to house would go, And all were pleased to hear and see; For none made sweeter melody

Than did the poor blind boy.