A humble wild-rose, pink and slender, 
 Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet, 
Beside a Jacqueminot?s royal splendour, 
 And both in my lady?s boudoir lay.

Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning, 
 `I wonder why you are called a rose? 
Your leaves will fade in a single morning; 
 No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows.

`Your course green stalk shows dust of the highway, 
 You have no depths of fragrant bloom; 
And what could you learn in a rustic byway
 To fit you to lie in my lady?s room? 

`If called to adorn her warm, white bosom, 
 What have you to offer for such a place, 
Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom, 
 Ripe with colour and rich with grace? 

Said the sweet wild-rose, `Despite your dower
 Of finer breeding and deeper hue, 
Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower, 
 It is I who should lie on her breast, not you.

`For small account is your hot-house glory
 Beside the knowledge that came to me
When I heard by the wayside love?s old story
 And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.?