Then answered bold as beggar-brat
That plant of mean descent, —
"Whoever speaks to me like that
Is very imperent.
"At me no hothouse swell shall rail,
In such outlandish lingo,
Without an answer on the nail,
In plainer terms, by jingo.
"It might be rollicksome or queer,
The blast that blew me hither,
But now I am fast-rooted here,
I'm not a-goin' to wither.
"My health, thank God, is very sound;
I crave no shade or prop;
In open air, from common ground,
I gets my bite and sup.
"My cloes diskiver stains and rents,
While yours are fine as fire;
I don't go in for paints and scents
From stable or from byre.
"But not a breeze can make me shrink,
No sun's for me too hot;
I'm blest if I would take my drink
Out o' a waterin'-pot.
"You Dahly swelled, you Fuschy sick,
You fiery-faced Carnation,
No doubt, you count yourselves the pick
And pride o' all creation.
"But though at shows there's such ado
About your tints and statur',
I've just as great a share as you
O' all that's fair in natur'.
"'Tis not alone for you the sky
At peep o' day is brightenin';
There's more nor you has got an eye
For moonshine and sheet-lightnin'.
"Robins and wrens I here remark,
Twitterin' about and clingin',
But by my birth-place lived a lark,
And over it flew singin'!
"No fear have I o' worm that gnaws,
Or frost and storms that splinter,
While most o' you poor windle-straws
Will never see a winter.
"Afore the snow ye'll all be dead,
In spite o' praise and carin',
And 'ugly weeds' will live and spread,
When 'Flory's pets' die barren."
Still longer thus, with gibings keen,
In language free of fetters,
The Ragweed had indulged her spleen,
And ballyragged her betters;
But suddenly she ceased to prate,
And shook with rueful fidgets,
Clutched tightly by the hand of fate,
Alias, the gardener's digits!
For that old man, whose skill excelled,
Though sometimes he got tipsy,
Grew red, cried "Dammee!" and expelled
The vegetable gipsy.
