WILD FLOWERS. 
An’, wha that sees his finger more, 
To turn the spheres that roll above, 
Will need a word o’ mine to prove 
That, in his sight, 
Thou and the cedar o’ the grove 
Are like in height 1 
But then, he’d hae thee he content 
To live an’ die where thou wert sent; 
An’ ne’er get a’ unwisely bent 
To quit the place, 
Whilk thy Creator ever meant 
That thou should’st grace. 
Like thee, should ilka virtuous mind, 
Where fa’s its lot, there he resigned, 
Tho’ humble here, it soon will find 
That in the sequel, 
The haughtiest laird o’ human kind 
Is but its equal! 
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