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The Flower Gatherers.

GATHERING flow'rs from the break of morn,
Ours is no life for the world to scorn;
Roving the woods and the meadows green,
Seeking the nooks where the elves have been
Culling the gems from each mossy bed
Where the modest violet hides her head;
Or plucking the blooms of the sweet harebell
Down in the dells where the fairies dwell.

Ho! for the woods at the dawn of day!
Up with the sun, and away, away.
Oh! what a joyous life is ours,
Shaking the dew from the woodland flow'r


Seeking the spots where the cowslips lie
Hidden afar from the world's dull eye:
Scenting the air with their rich perfume,
Laden we come with the golden bloom.

Lady, arise from your golden sleep;
Laden we come from the forest deep:
Here are the flow'rs of your early dreams,
Cull'd from the banks of the woodland streams.