But 't was the foliage of the rocks-the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze : And on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain cottage might be seen.
WORDSWORTH.
THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green bracken,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers, Where the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly unseen.
BURNS.
COME awa', come awa',
An' leave your Southland hame, lassie, The kirk is near, the ring is here-
An' I'm your Donald Græme, lassie; Rock and reel, and spinning-wheel, And English cottage trig, lassie, Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel