I never see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart. My smile expires into a sigh; I feel a struggling in the eye, Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, Till rolling tears have won their way; For soul and brain will travel back Through Memory's chequer'd mazes, To days when I but trod Life's track For "Buttercups and Daisies."
Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare, Of sober speech and silver hair; Who carry counsel, wise and sage, With all the gravity of age: Oh! say, do ye not like to hear The accents ringing in your ear, When sportive urchins laugh and shout, Tossing those precious flowers about, Springing with bold and gleesome bound, Proclaiming joy that crazes; And chorussing the magic sound Of "Buttercups and Daisies?"
Are there, I ask, beneath the sky Blossoms that knit so strong a tie With Childhood's love? Can any please Or light the infant eye like these? No, no; there's not a bud on earth Of richest tint, or warmest birth, Can ever fling such zeal and zest Into the tiny hand and breast. Who does not recollect the hours When burning words and praises Were lavish'd on those shining flowers, "Buttercups and Daisies?"
There seems a bright and fairy spell About their very names to dwell; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings Are closest link'd to simplest things; And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love, and life, and all he past: And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave With "Buttercups and Daisies."
