114 
FLORA OF FORFARSHIRE. 
for its presence proclaims, that, 
“ Not worlds on worlds in phalanx deep, 
Need we to prove a God is here; 
The daisy, fresh from winter’s sleep 
Tells of His hand in lines as clear.” 
And with Montgomery one feels disposed to exclaim — 
“ Thrice welcome, little English flower! 
To me the pledge of hope unseen : 
When sorrow would my soul o’erpower 
For joys that were, or might have been, 
I’ll call to mind, how — fresh and green — 
I saw thee waking from the dust; 
Then turn to Heaven with brow serene, 
And place in God my trust.” 
The daisy (or day’s eye) is a favourite with all, high and 
low, and many a tribute has been paid it by those who have 
expressed themselves in the language of “ sweet poesy,” and 
probably many a heart-felt eulogium has been pronounced 
upon it by kindred minds without the clothing of words. 
The beautiful and pathetic effusion to this lowly flower by 
Scotland’s ‘ploughman jpoet is perhaps known to all, but pro- 
bably its best biographer is J. Montgomery, whose sweet little 
poem, like the former, might be read a thousand times over 
by the lover of Flora without satiety. 
“THE FIELD FLOWER. 
I There is a flower, a little flower, 
With silver crest and golden eye, 
That welcomes every changing hour, 
And weathers every sky. 
The prouder beauties of the field 
In gay but quick succession shine ; 
Race after race their honours yield — 
They flourish and decline. 
But this small flower, to nature dear, 
While moon and stars their courses run, 
Wreathes the whole circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 
It smiles upon the lap of May, 
To sultry August spreads its charms, 
Lights pale October on its way, 
And twines December’s arms. 
The purple heath and golden broom 
On moory mountains catch the gale ; 
O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume, 
The violet in the vale. 
