The Docken
(On seeing a docken plant growing beside the coal bin at the bottom of a garden.)
Yin wee sairly trauchled docken.
Dusty, stragglin'-like an' broken.
Ye'll no' be bate at keepin' root,
Tho' a'maist traimpled underfoot.
Tak' hert, lane plant: ye're comin on,
tho' gairdeners on ye never fawn,
An' beasts avoid ye when they dine.
Like them, ye're in the plan devine.

Ye've Latin name in books o' lear,
as weel's the lane, sae never fear.
An' see, the bairns, wi' cries they bring
tae you, their rash frae nettle sting.
Fur that itsel', my blessin' hae,
each growin' thing has purpose tae.
Jist battle on, wee docken then,
An' grace the coal bin a' ye ken.