“We pay no price for our summer coats,
Like those slavish creatures, barley and oats;
We don’t choose to be ground and eat,
Like our heavy-head neighbour, Gaffer Wheat.
“Who dare thrash us, we should like to know!
Grind us, and bag us, and use us so!
Let meaner and shabbier things than we
So stupidly bend to utility!”
So said little Red-cap, and all the rout
Of the Poppy-clan set up a mighty shout;
Mighty for them, but if you had heard
You had thought it the cry of a tiny bird.
So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field,
In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled;
And shook out their jackets, till naught was seen,
But a wide, wide shimmer of scarlet and green.
The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk,
Quietly smiling at all their talk.
The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun,
And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun.
The whimsical Bugloss, vain, beautiful thing,
Whose flowers, like the orient butterfly’s wing,
Are deep, glowing azure, was eager to shed
O’er her yet unoped buds a delicate red;
First crimson, then purple, then loveliest blue;
E’en thrice doth she change her chameleon hue;
And she pities the flowers that grow merrily by,
Because in one dress they must bud, bloom, and die.
The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she,
For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity
Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew,
Content with herself, and her plain purple hue.
The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow,
To some bringing joy, and to others e’en sorrow,
But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn
When he went with his reapers among the corn.
Forth went they betimes, a right merry band,
The sickles were glancing in each strong hand,
And the wealthy farmer came trotting along,
On his stiff little pony, mid whistle and song.