Let them boast of Arabia,
oppressed
By the odour of myrrh on the
breeze;
In the isles of the East and the
West
That are sweet with the
cinnamon trees:
Let the sandal-wood perfume the
seas,
Give the roses to Rhodes and
to Crete,
We are more than content, if you
please,
With the smell of bog-myrtle
and peat!
Though Dan Virgil enjoyed
himself best
With the scent of the limes,
when the bees
Hummed low round the doves in
their nest,
While the vintagers lay at
their ease;
Had he sung in our Northern
degrees,
He'd have sought a securer
retreat,
He'd have dwelt, where the heart
of us flees,
With the smell of bog-myrtle
and peat!
O the broom has a chivalrous
crest,
And the daffodil's fair on the
leas,
And the soul of the Southron
might rest,
And be perfectly happy with
these;
But we that were nursed on the
knees
Of the hills of the North, we
would fleet
Where our hearts might their
longing appease
With the smell of bog-myrtle
and peat!
