SWEET floweret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair.
November hirples o'er the lea,
Chil, on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas! the sheltering tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.
May HE who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving shower,
The bitter frost and snaw.
May HE, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.
But late she flourished, rooted fast,
Fair in the summer morn:
Now, feebly bends she, in the blast,
Unsheltered and forlorn.
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscathed by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land.