As thinks
The mariner of home,
When doomed through many a dreary waste
Of waters yet to roam,—
Thus doth my spirit turn to thee,
My guiding star o’er life’s wild sea.
Mrs. Embury.
Dandelion, with globe of down,
The schoolboy’s clock in every town,
Which the truant puffs amain,
To conjure lost hours back again.
Pimpernel.... The Weather-glass.
the country maid and the pimpernel flower.
“I’ll go and peep at the Pimpernel,
And see if she think the clouds look well;
For if the sun shine,
And ’tis like to be fine,
I shall go to the fair,
For my sweetheart is there:
So, Pimpernel, what bode the clouds and the sky?
If fair weather, no maiden so merry as I.”
Now the Pimpernel flower had folded up
Her little gold star in her coral cup,
And unto the maid
Thus her warning said:
“Though the sun smile down,
There’s a gathering frown
O’er the checkered blue of the clouded sky;
So tarry at home, for a storm is nigh.”
The maid first looked sad and then looked cross,
Gave her foot a fling, and her head a toss;
“Say you so, indeed,
You mean little weed?
You’re shut up for spite,
For the blue sky is bright,
To more credulous people your warnings tell,
I’ll away to the fair;—good day, Pimpernel.”
“Stay at home! quoth the flower?—In sooth, not I;
I’ll don my straw hat with a silken tie;
O’er my neck so fair
I’ll a kerchief wear,
White, chequered with pink,
And then—let me think,
I’ll consider my gown, for I’d fain look well:”
So saying, she stepped o’er the Pimpernel.