Complaint

O FLOWER! so lovely in thy bloom, Be evil fate thy mother’s doom! Thy mother, who so kindly nurst, And sent thee to our village first. Where heroes o’er their cups romancing, And our young striplings stones are flinging, And our delighted brides are dancing, And our gay maidens songs are singing— ’Twas then I saw thee, lovely flower! And lost my quiet from that hour.