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Bellis perennis. Common Daisy.
Receptacle naked, conical. Down none. Calyx hemispherical with equal scales. Seeds inversely egg-shaped. Stalk naked. Hoot creeping—Withering.
ON FINDING A DAISY IN FULL BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY.
The He is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay succession shine;
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
It smiles upon the lap of May;
To sultry August spreads its charms; Lights pale October on his way;
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath and golden broom,
O'er lawns, the lily sheds perfume,
But this bold flowret climbs the hill,
Plays on the margin of the rill;
Within the garden's cultured bound,
And blooms on consecrated ground,
The lambkin crops its crimson gem;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast; The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
That decks the skylark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page: in every place,
It opens with perennial grace,
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
The rose has but a summer reign,
In commemorating the daisy, we cannot withhold the tribute of the bard of Ayr, in the plaintive little poem which follows, and which is so descriptive of his own peculiar lot, and of the fate which awaited him at no distant period. We must, however, remind our young readers, that the mountain daisy of the poet is still the bellis perennis of the botanist: as there is only one species of daisy known as indigenous in this country; though there are few plants which exhibit greater variety of appearance, with regard to size and colour, according to the nature of the soil in which it grows.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
On turning one down with the plough.
Wee modest crimson tipped flower,
Thy slender stem;
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! its to thy neebor sweet,
Wi spreckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter biting north
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
O' clod or stane,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise;
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
And guileless trust;
Low i' the dust.