His Clarkia Grandiflora:
And swore no love had ever root
Like to the love he bore her.
Yet still, whenever he talk'd thus,
She look at him quite gruff,
And "Come now, Mister Budd," she'd say,
"None of your garden stuff!"
And every year, as spring came round,
With flow'rs of every hue,
He'd cull the fairest of them all,