Floral Poetry. 
158 
“We’ll cut this Barley to-day,” quoth he, 
As he tied his white pony under a tree, 
“Next the upland Wheat, and then the Oats;” 
How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats ! 
Ay, shook with laughter, not fear, for they 
Never dreamed they too should be swept away, 
And their laughter was spite, to think that all 
Their “useful” neighbours were doomed to fall. 
They swelled and bustled with such an air, 
The corn-fields quite in commotion were, 
And the Farmer cried, glancing across the grain, 
“ How these rascally weeds have come up again ! ” 
“ Pla ! ha !” laughed the Red-caps, “ Ha ! ha ! what a fuss 
Must the poor weeds be in! how they’re envying us!” 
But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes 
They speedily met from the harvest-folks. 
And when low on earth each stem was laid, 
And the round moon looked on the havoc made, 
A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect, 
And made a short speech—to this effect:— 
“ My dying kins-flowers, and fainting friends, 
The same dire fate alike attends 
Those who in scarlet or blue are dressed, 
Then how silly the pride that so late possessed 
