It grows 'mid tangled underwood,
All brilliant in the fields,
And o'er our hearts a subtile spell
Its golden beauty wields.
Perchance some exile's foot hath pressed
The road with weary tread,
When lo! from out the wayside growth
It rears its bonny head.
Not with the first faint tints of Spring
Are its bright blossoms seen;
But, radiant in its garb, and decked
With Autumn's fruitful sheen.
Then hail! bright floweret of our choice—
With multiform design;
Though many in thy blossom's wealth,
Still one on parent vine!