Robert Burns

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, Born in Peculiar Circumstances of Family Distress

SWEET flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,
  And ward o’ mony a prayer,
What heart o’ stane wad thou na move,
  SaE hapless, sweet, and fair?

November hirples o’er the lea,
  Chill, on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas! the shelt’ring 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 show’r,
  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 flourish’d, rooted fast,
  Fair in the summer morn:
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
  Unshelter’d and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
  Unscath’d by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
  Arise to deck our land.


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