No more shall flowers the meads adorn;
Nor sweetness deck the rosy thorn;
Nor swelling buds proclaim the spring;
Nor parching heats the dogstar bring;
Nor laughing lilies paint the grove,
When blue-eyed Ann I cease to love.
"Blue-Eyed Ann" by Tobias Smollett
Here's where the cherries grew that birds forgot,
And apples bright as dogstars; now there is not
An apple or a cherry; only grapes,
But wild ones, Isabella grapes they're called,
Small, pointed, black, like boughs of musket-shot.
"Wild Grapes" by Kenneth Slessor