In the meadow, cool and sweet,
Where the cowslips bathe their feet,
On the banks of Scottish burns,
Down among the nodding ferns,
Where the shadows come and go,
Cheerful Primrose loves to grow.
Little flower she is, and meek;
And if she could only speak,
I am sure her words would be
Whispered very timidly.
Skylark, hush your joyous singing,
Bonnie harebells, cease your ringing,
Listen, listen, drowsy bee,—
Is the Primrose calling thee?
Tiny rootlets white and brown,
Leaves as soft as cygnet’s down,
Fringèd petals, dainty pink,
Peeping o’er the burnie’s brink,—
That is Primrose, sweet and true,
And I love her—do not you?