to a mountain daisy,

on turning 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 neibor sweet,

the bonie lark,panion meet,

bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

wi' spreckl'd breast!

when upward-springing, blythe, to greet

the purpling east.

cauld blew the bitter-biting north

upon thy early, humble birth;

yet cheerfully 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,