The Thistle and the Rose
The gentle petals of a rose, the finest and fairest of all blooms
With no other does it compare, its stems thorns should protect from harm
Its scent lingers on so those that pass blindly cant fail to miss
The princess of English flowers, leaves an imprint on my mind and heart that will
never fade
In contrast, from colder climes, a thistle stands alone
A symbol of a nation, of home, a far cry from perfection, and apart from reality
It stands in solitude, untouchable by its own protection and provides only a
glimpse of charm
The pride of Scotland, for in our hearts we fight and in loneliness it grows
So who would think that side by side two blooms could thrive, together but apart
And who would say that the thistle and the rose were matched, to be as one
The spikes and thorns have, and always will, cause pain for those caught within
their grasp
But always and forever do their souls entwine, the pain endured, worth the
pleasure given.
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