Classic Poem

Oh the broom, the yellow broom,
— — The ancient poet sung it,
And dear it is on summer days
— — To lie at rest among it.

I know the realms where people say
— — The flowers have not their fellow;
I know where they shine out like suns,
— — The crimson and the yellow.

I know where ladies live enchained
— — In luxury's silken fetters,
And flowers as bright as glittering gems
— — Are used for written letters.

But ne'er was flower so fair as this,
— — In modern days or olden;
It groweth on its nodding stem
— — Like to a garland golden.

And all about my mother's door
— — Shine out its glittering bushes,
And down the glen, where clear as light
— — The mountain-water gushes.

Take all the rest; but give me this,
— — And the bird that nestles in it;
I love it, for it loves the Broom —
— — The green and yellow linnet.

Well call the rose the queen of flowers,
— — And boast of that of Sharon,
Of lilies like to marble cups,
— — And the golden rod of Aaron:

I care not how these flowers may be
— — Beloved of man and woman;
The Broom it is the flower for me,
— — That groweth on the common.

Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom,
— — The ancient poet sung it,
And dear it is on summer days
— — To lie at rest among it.