Onopordum Acanthium

The Thistle's Grown Aboon the Rose

Full white the Bourbon lily blows,
Still fairer haughty England's rose;
Nor shall unsung the symbol smile,
Green Ireland, of thy lovely isle.
In Scotland grows a warlike flower,
Too rough to bloom in lady's bower;
But when his crest the warrior rears,
And spurs his courser on the spears.
O there is blossoms - there it blows -
The Thistle's grown aboon the Rose.

Bright like a steadfast star it smiles
Aboon the battle's burning files;
The mirkest cloud, the darkest night,
Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous sight;
And the best blood that warms my vein,
Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain.
Far has it shone on fields of fame
From matchless Bruce to dauntless Graeme,
From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows; -
The Thistle's grown aboon the Rose.

What conquer'd aye and nobler spared,
And firm endured, and greatly dared?
What redden'd Egypt's burning sand?
What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand?
What pipe on green Maida blew shrill?
What died in blood Barossa hill?
Bade France's dearest life-blood rue
Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo?
That spirit which no tremor knows; -
The Thistle's grown aboon the Rose.

I vow - and let men mete the grass
For his red grave who dares say less -
Men blither at the festive board,
Men braver with the spear and sword,
Men higher famed for truth - more strong
In virtue, sovereign sense, and song.
Or maids more fair, or wives more true,
Than Scotland's, ne'er trode down the dew;
Unflinching friends - unconquer'd foes,
The Thistle's grown aboon the Rose.

~ Allan Cunningham (1784-1842)