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Yet ye are the beings would smile in scorn
At our claims—at "things on the wild heath born;"
That would shrink from our presence as all unmeet,
Because we are useful, and keep ye neat.
Your dwellings, ye idlers, would soon look dim,
If ye had not our kindred to keep them trim.
Ye find even besoms of use, no doubt;
Then let arrogance cease such things to flout.
We may ask, perchance, of what use are ye,
When such o'erstrained pride we feel and see.
The lark dwells not in your slight weak sprays,
Not glassing your blossoms the streamlet plays,
The happy and hard-working bee ne'er comes
Within your well-guarded and glittering domes—
Ye suffer not even the breeze to bring
A breath of your sweets on his downy wing—
Ye do not—perchance ye too well feel
Ye have nought he would condescend to steal—
No—vain ones—we pity, but envy not
Your rank and state,
Ye little great;
Ours is a prouder and happier lot—
A nobler fate;
For we live in gladness and love together,
We fearless flowers of the mountain Heather!
