The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk, Quietly smiling at all their talk. The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun, And the purple Vetch climbed up to peep at the fun. The whimsical Bugloss, vain, beautiful thing, Whose flowers, like the orient butterfly’s wing, Are deep, glowing azure, was eager to shed O’er her yet unoped buds a delicate red; First crimson, then purple, then loveliest blue; E’en thrice doth she change her chameleon hue; And she pities the flowers that grow merrily by, Because in one dress they must bud, bloom, and die. The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she, For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew, Content with herself, and her plain purple hue. The sun went down, and rose bright on the morrow, To some bringing joy, and to others e’en sorrow, But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn When he went with his reapers among the corn. Forth went they betimes, a right merry band, The sickles were glancing in each strong hand, And the wealthy farmer came trotting along, On his stiff little pony, mid whistle and song. He trotted along, and he cracked his joke, And chatted and laughed with the harvest-folk; For the weather was settled, barometers high, And heavy crops gladdened his practised eye. “We’ll cut this barley to-day,” quoth he, As he tied his white pony under a tree, “Next to the upland wheat, and then the oats.” How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats! Ay, shook with laughter, not fear, for they Never dreamed they too should be swept away, And their laughter was spite, to think that all Their “useful” neighbours were doomed to fall. They swelled and bustled with such an air, The corn-fields quite in commotion were, And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain, “How those rascally weeds have come up again!” “Ha! ha!” laughed the Red-caps, “ha! ha! what a fuss Must the poor _weeds_ be in! how they’re envying _us_!” But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes They speedily met from the harvest-folks. And when low on the earth each stem was laid, And the round moon looked on the havoc made, A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect, And made a short-speech--to this effect. “My dying kins-flowers, and fainting friends, The same dire fate alike attends Those who in scarlet or blue are dressed; Then how silly the pride that so late possessed “Our friends the Red-caps! how low they lie, Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high! They sneered at us and our plain array; Are we now a whit more humbled than they? “They scorned our neighbours:--the goodly corn Was the butt of their merriment eve and morn, They lived on its land, from its bounty fed, But a word of thanks they never have said.