It was in old times,
When trees composed rhymes,
And flowers did with elegy flow;
In an old battle-field,
That fair flowers did yield,
A rose and a thistle did grow.
On a soft summer day,
The rose chanced to say,
"Friend thistle, I'll with you be plain;
And if you'd simply be
But united to me,
You would ne'er be a thistle again."
The thistle said, "My spears
Shield me from all fears,
While you quite unguarded remain;
And well, I suppose,
Though I were a rose,
I'd fain be a thistle again."
"Dearest friend," quoth the rose,
"You falsely suppose--
Bear witness ye flowers of the plain!--
You'd take so much pleasure
In beauty's vast treasure,
You'd ne'er be a thistle again."
The thistle, by guile,
Preferred the rose's smile
To all the gay flowers of the plain;
She threw off her sharp spears,
Unarmed she appears--
And then were united the twain.
But one cold, stormy day,
While helpless she lay,
No longer could sorrow refrain;
She gave a deep moan,
And with many an "Ohone!
Alas for the days when a Stuart filled the throne--
OH! WERE I A THISTLE AGAIN!"