Once a to a thistle came a bee
which upon his stem alighted
to consort with blossoms sweet;
the thistle was delighted.
Said the thistle to the bee,
You fear not my greeny thorn,
It is plain that you could love me
better than all others born.
I see you have a thorn yourself,
A maiden thusly self-protected
Could sleep so well upon my down,
By my prickles so unaffected.
The bee drank in his nectar fine
She buzzed her wings in gentle song
She danced her dance upon his leaves
And kissed each flower that came along.
Swooning in the highland wind
The thistle felt his joy ignited
But as his petals slowly drained,
He found his love was unrequited.
Gaily bedecked with golden pollen
the merry bee flew to her hive
And the thistle wept a milky tear
of love bereft now and deprived.
Young men and maids who hear this tale
Fall not in love with those who tarry
Be not the longing thistle here
who trusts to fast and is not wary.
And never be the flighty bee
Who samples each and every flower
with your stinger in your hand,
to nestle in and then devour.
In everything, be tempered true
And love will find you where you are.
Think of the thistle and the bee
E’re you set your heart too far.