SWEET flowret, 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 oer the lea,
Chill, on thy lovely form:
And gane, alas! the sheltring 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 showr,
The bitter frost and snaw.
May He, the friend o Woe and Want,
Who heals lifes various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.
But late she flourishd, rooted fast,
Fair in the summer morn,
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelterd and forlorn.
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscathd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!
