And the illigant flowers that I thought meant to flout me
When I larnt what they said, sure they meant me no harm.
The hands I thought cold I found true in their tending,
The hearts I thought hard, sure, were soft at the core;
So I opened my leaves with less fear of offending,
And the longer I knew I loved England the more.
For my Queen is a mistress that's gentle and tender,
And oft my poor leaflet her bosom adorns;
She says I've my sweetness, if roses their splendour,
An' if I've no blossoms, why, sure I've no thorns.