IT'S better to be a buttercup out in the grass Where a hundred children pass, And at evening drink the dew, Than be you, Poor little rich flower, Shut up in a lady's bower. Does the lady look your way Any day? Ever stoop to you and bless? Give your head a soft caress? You are such a tiny part Of all her things. Her heart A crowded palace is; but O, to know the bliss Of being meadow-glad—like this— You should be out in the grass Where the happy children pass— We would like to welcome you To our sunshine, rain, and dew, Flower, in a lady's bower. |