Where each blighted country bud
Droops in vegetable mud;
Haste, if such a haunt be thine,
Choicest herbs and flowers to twine
Into wreaths for those who’d rule us,
Those who’d not the wit to fool us—
Flora, sure, will love to please
Her own Tory votaries!
First, then, it is my behest
That a Cowslip be thy quest;