To A Mountain Daisy, On Turning One Down With The Plough In April, 1786.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped 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 bonnie gem.         Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,         The bonnie lark, companion meet!         Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,             Wi' spreckl'd breast,         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             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         But thou, beneath the random bield             O' clod or stane,         Adorns the histie stibble-field,             Unseen, alane.         There, in thy scanty mantle clad,         Thy 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 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 wrenched of every 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!