The Flower

By Thomas Hood

Alone, across a foreign plain,
The exile slowly wanders,
And on his isle beyond the main.
With saddened spirit ponders;

This lovely isle beyond the sea,
With all its household treasures.
Its cottage homes, its merry birds,
And all its rural pleasures;

Its leafy woods, its shady vales,
Its moors, aund purple heather;
Its verdant fields bedecked with stars;
His childhood loved to gather;

When, lo! he starts with glad surprise,
Home-joys come rushing o'er him,
For modest, wee, and crimson-tipped,
He, spies the flower before him!

With eager haste he stoops him down,
His eyes with moisture hazy,
And as he plucks the simple bloom,
He murmurs, Lawk-a-daisy!