To a Mountain Daisy

by Robert Burns

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL 1786

 

1
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,
                                Thou bonie gem.

2
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
                                 Wi' spreckl'd breast!
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
                                 The purpling east.

3
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
                                 Amid the storm,
Scarse rear'd above the parent-earth
                                 Thy tender form.

4
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,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,        
                                  Unseen, alane.

5
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!

6
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.

7
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'¡

8
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'rys brink;
Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
                                    He, ruin'd, sink!

9
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!

 

Robert Burns | Classic Poems
 

A Red, Red Rose ] [ To a Mountain Daisy ] Address to a Haggis ] Address to Edinburgh ] Auld Lang Syne ] Is there for Honest Poverty ] Address to the Unco Guid ] The Cotter's Saturday Night ] To a Louse ] My Heart's in the Highlands ] Holy Willie's Prayer ] Tam O'Shanter ] To a Mouse ]

 

 


 

 

 
 
 
 

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