Burns.    

	And every shepherd tells his tale
	Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Milton.    

	Yet, all beneath the unrivall’d rose,
	The lowly daisy sweetly blows;
	Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws
	His army shade,
	Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,
	Adown the glade.

Burns.    

	Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing;
	Now hawthorns blossom.

Pope.