THE SONG OF THE THISTLE FAIRY

I am the soldier of the field,
All armed with swords and spears;
Beware the weapons which I wield,
Unless you look for tears.

The prickles of my leaves and stem
Can stab as needles do;
But, if you never handle them,
They'll do no harm to you.

And presently my purple crown,
Which looks so brave to-day,
Shall turn to softest thistle-down
And lightly float away.