The Rose, the Thistle and the Daffodil
The rose, the thistle and the daffodil
Are credited with national pride and power,
As if by simply picking a flower
There’s an expression of popular will,
By which to divide each from another.
All claim their soil is unique, special, pure,
But it turns out to be simply manure.
Folk defined by denying the brother
Or sister accident of birth has placed
The wrong side of a cartographer’s line,
As if a border lets people resign
Capital’s rule. It remains to be faced.
Rose, thistle and daffodil pay no heed
To maps or boundaries when sowing their seed.