To a Mountain Daisy-Robert Burns 1759-1796, Poem, 1786

On Turning One Down with the Plow, in April, 1786

           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.

              Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,

           The bonie lark, companion meet,

             Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet

                   Wi' spreck'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 an' 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 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.