LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
On turning one down with a plough, in 
April 1786. 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou’s met me in an evil hour; 
F or I maun crush amang the stoure 
Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow’r. 
Thou bonnie gem. 
Alas ! it’s no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet! 
Rending thee ’mang the dewy weet! 
Wi’ spreckled breast, 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 
The purpling east. 
C mid blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear’d above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 
The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield. 
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield, 
But thou beneath the random bield 
O’ clod or stane, 
Adonis the histie stibble-field. 
Unseen, alane. 
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward 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 flow ret of the rural shade ! 
By love’s simplicity betray’d. 
And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 
Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 
Of prudent lore , 
T ill billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
And whelm him o’er ! 
Such fate to sifffering worth is giv’n, 
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, 
By human pride or cunning driv’n, 
To mis’ry’s brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev’ry stay but Heav'n , 
He, ruin'd, sink ! 
Ev'n thou who mourn’st the Daisy's fate. 
That fate is thine —no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin’s plough-share drives, elate, 
Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight, 
Shall be thy doom ! 
Burns. 
66 
