Spear Thistle

Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown     [Yields] scant grass pining after showers,     And winds go fanning up and down     The little strawy bents and nodding flowers,     There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns,     The suncrackt upland's russet swells adorns.     Not undevoid of beauty there they come,     Armed warriors, waiting neither suns nor showers,     Guarding the little clover plots to bloom     While sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowers     Unsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowers     When summer cometh in her hottest hours.     The pewit, swopping up and down     And screaming round the passer bye,     Or running oer the herbage brown     With copple crown uplifted high,     Loves in its clumps to make a home     Where danger seldom cares to come.     The yellowhammer, often prest     For spot to build and be unseen,     Will in its shelter trust her nest     When fields and meadows glow with green;     And larks, though paths go closely bye,     Will in its shade securely lie.     The partridge too, that scarce can trust     The open downs to be at rest,     Will in its clumps lie down, and dust     And prune its horseshoe-circled breast,     And oft in shining fields of green     Will lay and raise its brood unseen.     The sheep when hunger presses sore     May nip the clover round its nest;     But soon the thistle wounding sore     Relieves it from each brushing guest,     That leaves a bit of wool behind,     The yellowhammer loves to find.     The horse will set his foot and bite     Close to the ground lark's guarded nest     And snort to meet the prickly sight;     He fans the feathers of her breast--     Yet thistles prick so deep that he     Turns back and leaves her dwelling free.     Its prickly knobs the dews of morn     Doth bead with dressing rich to see,     When threads doth hang from thorn to thorn     Like the small spinner's tapestry;     And from the flowers a sultry smell     Comes that agrees with summer well.     The bee will make its bloom a bed,     The humble bee in tawny brown;     And one in jacket fringed with red     Will rest upon its velvet down     When overtaken in the rain,     And wait till sunshine comes again.     And there are times when travel goes     Along the sheep tracks' beaten ways,     Then pleasure many a praise bestows     Upon its blossoms' pointed rays,     When other things are parched beside     And hot day leaves it in its pride.