| William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909. | | | | To a Mountain Daisy | | By Robert Burns (1759–1796) |
| | On turning one down with the Plough, in April, 1786 |
|
WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flow’r, | |
| Thou’s met me in an evil hour; | |
| For I maun crush amang the stoure | |
| Thy slender stem: | |
| To spare thee now is past my pow’r, | 5 |
| Thou bonnie gem. | |
| |
| Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet, | |
| The bonnie lark, companion meet, | |
| Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet, | |
| Wi’ spreckl’d breast! | 10 |
| When upward-springing, blythe, to greet | |
| The purpling east. | |
| |
| Cauld blew the bitter-biting north | |
| Upon thy early, humble birth; | |
| Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth | 15 |
| Amid the storm, | |
| Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth | |
| Thy tender form. | |
| |
| The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, | |
| High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield: | 20 |
| But thou, beneath the random bield | |
| O’ clod or stane, | |
| Adorns the histie stibble field | |
| Unseen, alane. | |
| |
| There, in thy scanty mantle clad, | 25 |
| Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, | |
| Thou lifts thy unassuming head | |
| In humble guise; | |
| But now the share uptears thy bed, | |
| And low thou lies! | 30 |
| |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, | |
| And whelm him o’er! | |
| |
| Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, | |
| Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, | |
| By human pride or cunning driv’n | 45 |
| 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; | 50 |
| Stern Ruin’s plough-share drives elate, | |
| Full on thy bloom, | |
| Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight, | |
| Shall be thy doom! | | | |
|
|
|
