To my father's friend, the Ven. Archdeacon Gill, this little Book is affectionately dedicated. O the cushag flower in a fairy bower Would shine like a star of gold; But when it grows in the farmer's close 'Tis a shocking weed, we're told. Yet common things May have their wings To help our souls above; And wayside weeds, Like kindly deeds, Spring from a father's love.…
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