A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest,
Was hanging her head through the long golden hours;
And early one morning I saw her tears falling,
And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers.

The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded,
Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose:
'That wild, roving Bee, who was hanging about her
Has jilted her squarely, as every one knows.

'I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing,
His airs and his speeches, so fine and so sweet,
Just how it would end; but no one would believe me,
For all were quite ready to fall at his feet.'

'Indeed, you are wrong,' said the Lilybelle proudly,
'I cared nothing for him. He called on me once
And would have come often, no doubt, if I'd asked him.
But though he was handsome, I thought him a dunce.'

'Now, now, that's not true,' cried the tall Oleander.
'He has travelled and seen every flower that grows;
And one who has supped in the garden of princes,
We all might have known would not wed with the Rose.'

'But wasn't she proud when he showed her attention?
And she let him caress her,' said sly Mignonette.
'And I used to see it and blush for her folly.
The silly thing thinks he will come to her yet.'