There is an olden story,
  'Tis a legend, so I'm told,
How the flowers gave a banquet,
  In the ivied days of old;
How the posies gave a party once
  That wound up with a ball,
How they held it in a valley,
  Down in "Flowery Kingdom Hall."

The flowers of every clime were there,
  Of high and low degree,
All with their petals polished,
  In sweet aromatic glee.
They met down in this woodland
  In the soft and ambient air,
Each in its lolling loveliness,
  Exhaled a perfume rare.

An orchestra of Blue Bells
  Sat upon a mossy knoll
And pealed forth gentle music
  That quite captured every soul.
The Holly hocked a pistil
  Just to buy a suit of clothes,
And danced with all the flowerets
  But the modest, blushing Rose.

The Morning Glory shining
  Seemed reflecting all the glow
Of dawn, and took a partner;
  It was young Miss Mistletoe.
Miss Maggie Nolia from the South
  Danced with Forget-me-not;
Sweet William took Miss Pink in tow
  And danced a slow gavotte.

Thus everything went swimmingly
  'Mongst perfumed belles and beaux,
And every floweret reveled save
  The modest, blushing Rose.
Miss Fuchsia sat around and told
  For floral emulation,
That she had actually refused
  To dance with A. Carnation.

The Coxcomb, quite a dandy there,
  Began to pine and mope,
Until he had been introduced
  To young Miss Heliotrope.
Sir Cactus took Miss Lily,
  And he swung her so about
She asked Sweet Pea to Cauliflower
  And put the Cactus out.

Miss Pansy took her Poppy
  And she waltzed him down the line
Till they ran against old Sunflower
  With Miss Honeysuckle Vine.
The others at the party that
  Went whirling through the mazy
Were the Misses Rhodo Dendron,
  Daffodil and little Daisy.

Miss Petunia, Miss Verbena, Violet,
  And sweet Miss Dahlia
Came fashionably late, arrayed
  In very rich regalia.
Miss Begonia, sweet Miss Buttercup,
  Miss Lilac and Miss Clover;
Young Dandelion came in late
  When all the feast was over.

The only flower that sent regrets
  And really couldn't come,
Who lived in the four hundred, was
  The vain Chrysanthemum.
One floweret at the table
  Grew quite ill, we must regret,
And every posy wondered, too,
  Just what Miss Mignonette.

Young Tulip chose Miss Orchid
  From the first, and did not part
With her until Miss Mary Gold
  Fell with a Bleeding Heart.
But ah! Miss Rose sat pensively
  Till every young bud passed her;
When just to fill the last quadrille,
  The China Aster.