Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod.

And O the buttercups! that field O' the cloth of gold, when pennons swam-- Where France set up his lilied shield, His oriflamb, And Henry's lion-standard rolled: What was it to their matchless sheen, Their million million drops of gold Among the green!

He likes the poor things of the world the best, I would not, therefore, if I could be rich. It pleases him t stoop for buttercups.

When buttercups are blossoming, The poets sand, 'tis best to wed: So all for love we paired in Spring-- Blanche and I--ere youth had sped.

Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower.