This text comes from A First Series of Hymns and Songs, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
There is a flow'r, a little flow'r,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes ev'ry passing hour,
And weathers ev'ry changeful sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,
They bloom their day, and then decline.
The purple heath, and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The humble violet in the vale;
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
And peeps around the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the silent dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the skylark's hidden nest.
In every clime, in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And sweetly blossoms every where.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer reign,
The modest Daisy never dies.