Ever bent harps, to send unceasing hymns
Of thankful praise to One who fills all space,
And yet looks down with smiles on lowly man.
Alfred Street.
THE GARDENER.
AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD.
A maiden stude in her bouir door,
As jimp as a willow wand;
When by there came a gardener lad
Wi’ a primrose in his hand.