$CTO- 137 
The whimsical Bugloss, vain, beautiful thing, 
Whose flowers, like the orient butterfly's wing, 
Are deep, glowing azure, was eager to shed 
O'er her yet unoped buds a delicate red; 
First crimson, then purple, then loveliest blue ; 
E'en thrice doth she change her chameleon hue; 
And she pities the flowers that grow merrily by, 
Because in one dress they must bud, bloom, and die. 
The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she, 
For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity 
Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew, 
Content with herself, and her plain purple hue. 
The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow, 
To some bringing joy, and to others e'en sorrow, 
But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn 
When he went with his reapers among the corn. 
Forth went they betimes, a right merry band, 
The sickles were glancing in each strong hand, 
And the wealthy farmer came trotting along, 
On his stiff little pony, mid whistle and song. 
He trotted along, and he cracked his joke, 
And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk; 
For the weather was settled, barometers high, 
And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye. 
“We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he, 
As he tied his white pony under a tree, 
12* 
