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 folks 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.