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Robert Burns - To A Mountain Daisy
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Wee, modest, crimson-tipp èd 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,
             Thou bonie gem.
     Alas! it`s no thy neibor sweet,
     The bonie lark, companion meet,
     Bending thee `mang the dewy weet
            Wi` spreck`d breast, 
    When upward-sprin ging, blythe, to greet
            The purpling east.
    Cauld blew the bitter-bitin g 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 flowers our gardens yield 
    High shelt`ring woods an` wa`s maun shield:
    But thou, beneath the random bield 
            O` clod or stane,
    Adorns the histie stibble-fiel d
            Unseen, alane.
    There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
    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!
    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,
    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
            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 ploughshare drives elate,
            Full on thy bloom,
    Till crush`d beneath the furrow`s weight
            Shall be thy doom.
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