TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY
On Turning One Down with the Plough in April, 1786
By Robert Burns
Wee, modest, crimson-tippéd flower,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour,
For I maun[8-1] crush amang the stoure[8-2]
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonny gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet,
The bonny lark, companion meet,
Bending thee’ mang the dewy weet,
Wi’ spreckled[8-3] breast,
When upward springing, blithe, 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 reared above the parent earth
Thy tender form.