38 FLORA HISTORICA. 



On waste and woodland, rock and plain, 



Its humble buds unheeded rise ; 

 The rose has but a summer reign, 



The Daisy never dies. 



The Ayrshire ploughman thus regrets the death 

 his ploughshare is giving to the Mountain Daisy. 



Small, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 

 Thou'st met me in an evil hour, 

 For I must crush among the stour 



Thy slender stem : 

 To spare thee now is past my power, 



Thou bonny gem. 



Alas ! 'tis no' thy neighbour sweet, 

 The bonny lark, companion meet, 

 Bending thee 'mong the dewy weet, 



With speckled breast : 

 When upward springing, blithe to greet 



The purpling east. 



Cold blew the bitter-biting North 



Upon thy humble birth, 



Yet cheerfully thou venturest forth 



Amid the storm, 

 Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 



Thy tender form. 



The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 

 High-sheltering woods and walks must shield ; 

 But thou between the random, bield 



Of clod or stone, 

 Adorn' st the rugged stubble-field, 



Unseen, alone. 



There in thy scanty mantle clad, 

 Thy snowy bosom sunward spread, 

 Thou lift'st thy unassuming head 



In humble guise ; 

 But now the share uptears thy bed, 



And low thou lies ! 



Burns. 



