He likes the poor things of the world the best, I would not, therefore, if I could be rich. It pleases him t stoop for buttercups.
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.
The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold, Held up their chalices of gold To catch the sunshine and the dew.
And O the buttercups! that field O' the cloth of gold, when pennons swam-- Where France set up his lilied shield, His oriflamb, And Henry's lion-standard rolled: What was it to their matchless sheen, Their million million drops of gold Among the green!
Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod.
The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendor.
When buttercups are blossoming, The poets sand, 'tis best to wed: So all for love we paired in Spring-- Blanche and I--ere youth had sped.
Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 'tis true: Yet wildings of nature, I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.