A humble wild-rose, pink and slender, br Was plucked and placed in a bright bouquet, br Beside a Jacqueminot’s royal splendour, br And both in my lady’s boudoir lay. br br Said the haughty bud, in a tone of scorning, br ‘I wonder why you are called a rose? br Your leaves will fade in a single morning; br No blood of mine in your pale cheek glows. br br ‘Your course green stalk shows dust of the highway, br You have no depths of fragrant bloom; br And what could you learn in a rustic byway br To fit you to lie in my lady’s room? br br ‘If called to adorn her warm, white bosom, br What have you to offer for such a place, br Beside my fragrant and splendid blossom, br Ripe with colour and rich with grace? br br Said the sweet wild-rose, ‘Despite your dower br Of finer breeding and deeper hue, br Despite your beauty, fair, high-bred flower, br It is I who should lie on her breast, not you. br br ‘For small account is your hot-house glory br Beside the knowledge that came to me br When I heard by the wayside love’s old story br And felt the kiss of the amorous bee.