When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down O, then what joy to walk at will, Upon the golden harvest-hill!

Heart's ease! one could look for half a day Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow, That gave this gentle name.

Old England is our home, and Englishmen are we Our tongue is known in every clime, our flag in every sea.

Will you walk into my parlour? Said the spider to a fly: 'Tis the prettiest little parlour That ever you did spy.

Yes, in the poor man's garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers - Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And Joy for weary hours.

For visions come not to polluted eyes.

True delicacy, that most beautiful heart-leaf of humanity, exhibits itself most significantly in little things.

He is happiest who hath power to gather wisdom from a flower.

Roads are wet where'er one wendeth, And with rain the thistle bendeth, And the brook cries like a child! Not a rainbow shines to cheer us Ah! the sun comes never near us, And the heavens look dark and wile.

God sends children for another purpose than merely to keep up the race -- to enlarge our hearts, to make us unselfish, and full of kindly sympathies and affections.

The wild sea roars and lashes the granite cliffs below,And round the misty islets the loud strong tempests blow.

To ask me is in vain For who goes up your winding stair Can ne'er come down again.

I know he's coming by this sign, That baby's almost wild See how he laughs and crows and starts — Heaven, bless the merry child! He's father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him. Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands.