The Primrose opens wide in
spring;
Her scent is sweet and
good:
It smells of every happy thing
In sunny lane and wood.
I have not half the skill to sing
And praise her as I should.

She's dear to folk throughout
the land;
In her is nothing mean:
She freely spreads on every
hand
Her petals pale and clean.
And though she's neither proud
nor grand,
She is the Country Queen.