Loved holiness and primrose ways
About in equal quantities.
Wassail and yule-tide, feast and fair,
Blown petticoats, a child's low prayer,
And fine old pagan joy is there.
A wild-rose muse's haunt it is.
Dear herb o' grace, that kindred art
To all who choose the better part,
Grant us the Old World's childlike heart,
Now grown an antique rarity!