Maiden pinks, of odour faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true. Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry springtime's harbinger, With harebells dim.
I lingered around them, under the benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see! Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie In scented bowers! Ye roses on your thorny tree The first o' flow'rs.Robert Burns