TO A MOUNTAIN-DAISY, On turning one down, with the Plough, in April — 1786. Robert Burns Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T91548 Burns, Robert, 1759-1796. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT, BY ROBERT BURNS. Kilmarnock printed by John Wilson, M,DCC,LXXXVI. 1786 pp. 170-173. 240p.; 8⁰.

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TO A MOUNTAIN-DAISY , On turning one down , with the Plough , in April — 1786. WEE , modest , crimson-tipped flow'r , Thou's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem : To spare thee now is past my pow'r , Thou bonie gem . Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet , The bonie Lark , companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Wi's spreckl'd breast , When upward-springing , blythe , to greet The purpling East . Cauld blew the bitter-biting North Upon thy early , humble birth ; Yet chearfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm , Scarce rear'd above the Parent-earth Thy tender form . The flaunting flow'rs our Gardens yield , High-shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield , But thou , beneath the random bield O' clod or stane , Adorns the histie stibble-field , Unseen , alane . There , in thy scanty mantle clad , Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread , Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed , And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless Maid , Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! By Love's simplicity betray'd , And guileless trust , Till she , like thee , all soil'd , is laid Low i' the dust . Such is the fate of simple Bard , On Life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent Lore , Till billows rage , and gales blow hard , And whelm him o'er ! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n , Who long with wants and woes has striv'n , By human pride or cunning driv'n To Mis'ry's brink , Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but HEAV'N , He , ruin'd , sink ! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate , That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives , elate , Full on thy bloom , Till crush'd beneath the furrows weight , Shall be thy doom !