The lily has an air,

And the snowdrop a grace,

And the sweetpea a way,

And the heartsease a face,-

Yet there's nothing like the rose
When she blows.

Margaret has a milking-pail,
And she rises early;
Thomas has a threshing-flail,

And he's up betimes.
Sometimes crossing through the grass
Where the dew lies pearly,

They say "Good morrow" as they pass By the leafy limes.

In the garden-what in the garden? Jacob's-ladder and Solomon's-seal,

And Love-lies-bleeding with none to heal In the garden.

A frisky lamb

And a frisky child
Playing their pranks

In a cowslip meadow:

The sky all blue

And the air all mild

And the fields all sun

And the lanes half shadow.