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Updated: May 2, 2025
"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.
'Shall I not be grand in a conservatory? cried the ambitious Flower. 'I would rather "Adorn the rustic stibble-field, Unseen, alane," murmured meek Daisy. 'Ah, you have no ambition! sneered the other; 'besides, "the rustic stibble-field" is your proper sphere it is not mine! 'Pride, pride! rebuked Honeysuckle, gazing sorrowfully down upon the arrogant little speaker.
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