40 
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm, 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 
Thy tender, form. 
The flaunting flowers our garden yield. 
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield: 
But thou, beneath the random bield 
O’ clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibbie-field, 
Unseen, alane. 
There, in tliy scanty mantle clad. 
Thou snawie bosom sunward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 
And low thou lies ! 
Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love’s simplicity betrayed, 
And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 
Such is the fate of simple bard, 
On life’s rough ocean luckless starred : 
