POE TRY.
THISTLE-SONG.
BRIEF is the slender harebell's hour, Frail the wild arum's hiding flower: Let but the zephyr stir in sleep, The wind-flowers do him reverence deep: And fragile blows the pale dog-rose Under a copse's lee : But the thistles stand on the open land Fearless, and fine to see.
0 sing me that St. Crispin's day When a forlorn and lean array, Whereof all spangled France made sport, Held the hard field of Agincourt. I think the ghosts of Harry's hosts Are thistles now, and hold The bitter ban of beast and man As lightly as of old.
Let slavish roots endure to grow By permit in a planted row; Like fools that sacrifice their summers To grind the money-mills of commerce. Some day of ruth they see the truth, Which is from the beginning,— Freedom and health are all the wealth That's fairly worth the winning.
So you, my freemen of the field, Fit blazon of the Highland shield, My handsome idlers of the plain That live for living, not for gain, With bristled points and armoured joints Sell dear your lives, and whom Sharp sickles spare shall win to wear
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