PIMPERNEL .

Our bonny Kate bound her golden hair,
With a violet wreath for the village fair,
And tripped with the grace of a gay gazelle,
Where blushes the delicate pimpernel;
For a propheless true is that lowly flower,
She warns us ever of tempest hour,
When the rain-cloud shadows her humble head,
She folds her petals of brilliant red,
And keeps her sunny heart warm within,
Like a fair girl shutting out grief and sin.