There, o'er his dogrose fence, the chestnut foal, Shaking his silver forelock, proudly stands, To snuff the balmy fragrance of the morn: Up comes his ebon compeer, and, anon, Around the field in mimic chase they fly, Startling the echoes of the woodland gloom.

Tho' dogrose and anemone are fair in their degree, The rose that blooms by garden-walls still is the rose for me.