He trotted along, and he cracked his joke,
And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk;
For the weather was settled, barometers high,
And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye.
“We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he,
As he tied his white pony under a tree,
“Next to the upland wheat, and then the oats.”
How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats!
Ay, shook with laughter, not fear, for they
Never dreamed they too should be swept away,
And their laughter was spite, to think that all
Their “useful” neighbours were doomed to fall.
They swelled and bustled with such an air,
The corn-fields quite in commotion were,
And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain,
“How those rascally weeds have come up again!”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the Red-caps, “ha! ha! what a fuss
Must the poor weeds be in! how they’re envying us!”
But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes
They speedily met from the harvest-folks.
And when low on the earth each stem was laid,
And the round moon looked on the havoc made,
A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect,
And made a short-speech—to this effect.
“My dying kins-flowers, and fainting friends,
The same dire fate alike attends
Those who in scarlet or blue are dressed;
Then how silly the pride that so late possessed
“Our friends the Red-caps! how low they lie,
Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high!
They sneered at us and our plain array;
Are we now a whit more humbled than they?
“They scorned our neighbours:—the goodly corn
Was the butt of their merriment eve and morn,
They lived on its land, from its bounty fed,
But a word of thanks they never have said.
“And which is the worthiest now, I pray?
Have ye not learned enough to-day?
Is not the corn sheafed up with care,
And are not the Poppies left dying there?