The rose is called the queen of flowers, Surrounded by her sisters fair, A lovely throng of beauties rare, She holds her court 'mid summer bowers, 'Neath smiling skies of sunny blue, Gayly they bloom the summer through Brightening all the golden hours.
But when the autumn days have come Then blooms our sweet Chrysanthemum. As we watch the summer days depart And the painted leaves in silence fall, And the vines are dead upon the wall; A dreamy sadness fills each heart, Our garden seems a dreary place, No brilliant flowers its borders grace, Save in a sheltered nook apart, Where gay beneath the autumn sun Blooms our own Chrysanthemum.
Ah! she is not a "Summer Friend," She stays when all the rest have flown, And left us flowerless and alone; No singing birds, or blooms to lend Their brightness to the autumn haze, 'Tis she who cheers the dreary days; 'Tis joy to know so sweet a friend; No fairer flower blooms 'neath the sun Than autumn's queen Chrysanthemum.