I know he’s coming by this sign, That baby’s almost wild; See how he laughs and crows and starts – Heaven, bless the merry child! He’s father’s self in face and limb, And father’s heart is strong in him. Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands.

When on the breath of Autumn’s breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down; O, then what joy to walk at will, Upon the golden harvest-hill!

Roads are wet where’er one wendeth, And with rain the thistle bendeth, And the brook cries like a child! Not a rainbow shines to cheer us; Ah! the sun comes never near us, And the heavens look dark and wile.

Heart’s ease! one could look for half a day Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow, That gave this gentle name.

God sends children for another purpose than merely to keep up the race – to enlarge our hearts, to make us unselfish, and full of kindly sympathies and affections.

Yes, in the poor man’s garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers – Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And Joy for weary hours.

He is happiest who hath power to gather wisdom from a flower.

For visions come not to polluted eyes.

The wild sea roars and lashes the granite cliffs below,And round the misty islets the loud strong tempests blow.

Yes, in the poor man's garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers - Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And Joy for weary hours.