C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
To a Mountain Daisy
By Robert Burns (1759–1796)
W
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 power,
Thou bonnie gem.
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet,
Wi’ spreckled breast,
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.
Upon thy early, humble birth,
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce reared 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.
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity betrayed,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i’ the dust.
On life’s rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskillful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven
To mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruined, sink!
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s plowshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight
Shall be thy doom!