A rose has thorns as well as honey,
I'll not have her for love or money;
An iris grows so straight and fine,
Herself a rose, who bore the Rose,
She bore the Rose and felt its thorn.
All loveliness new-born
I have but one rose in the world,
And my one rose stands a-drooping:
Oh, when my single rose is dead
There'll be but thorns for stooping.
'The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.'
Oh the rose of keenest thorn!
The rose that blushes rosy red,
She must hang her head;
The lily that blows spotless white,
She may stand upright.