What wanton wind, disorderly, fantastic,
⁠Hither impelled thy alien germ, O weed?
Why wasted here was nature's virtue plastic
⁠On such a seed?

Here, where the sumptuous rose and stately lily,
⁠Through the bright hours their crowns effulgent rear,
And with rich perfume in the twilight stilly
⁠Dower the dim air;

Where by the fount its tender beam is brightening,
⁠Sweet eyes are turned to love's benignant star;
Or fairies frolic while the summer lightning
⁠Shimmers afar.

'Mid these choice bowers, in this immaculate garden,
⁠Beauty's loved haunt, pictorial fancy's meed,
Not here, not here may'st thou have place or pardon,
⁠Ungainly weed!

Here float soft melodies of bird and bee,
⁠Rains come at call, and tempered winds blow hither;
Such are for Flora's darlings, — but for thee,
⁠Wither, weed, wither!

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.

Spring's hands, in Shakespeare's words, you say,
⁠"Do paint the meadows with delight" —
I go where artist hands in May
⁠Hang paintings far more bright!

Though soft the twilight star that shines
⁠On grassy mead and limpid stream —
The stars I seek when day declines
⁠In Covent Garden beam!

Though sweet the thousand liquid notes
⁠Your feathered songsters warble here —
My birds of eve from tuneful throats
⁠Now utter notes more dear!

Farewell, ye streams, ye meads, ye flowers,
⁠Until your autumn robes ye wear —
Though May is fair in country bowers,
⁠'Tis fairest in Mayfair!