  Where the rose blushes in the garden, there will the bee and the butterfly be found, humming and fluttering around. So is it in the world; the fair girl, whose sweetness is enhanced by the fictitious advantages of wealth and position, will ever have lovers and admirers enough and to spare. Burns was no bad judge of human nature; and he has a stanza on this subject, combining the reflection of the philosopher with the canny discrimination of the Scot. “Away with your follies of beauty’s alarms, The slender bit beauty you clasp in your arms; But gi’e me the lass that has acres of charms, Oh, gi’e me the lass with the weel-plenished farms.” Should the following pages afford such attractive young ladies matter for a few moments’ reflection, the author will not have written in vain. May he hope they will choose well and wisely; and that the withered rose, when she has lost her fragrance, may be fondly prized and gently tended by the hand that plucked her in her dewy morning prime. |
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