The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Gaudy bird, of gorgeous hue,
How kind has nature been to you,
In formin' a' your feathers fair,
Your weel fledged wings, and stars so rare,
Glancin' by day, but dim by night,
Right fair for show, but dull for light.

Like fickle frien's, when Fortune twines us,
Will show their face, and proffer kindness;
But should misfortune's gloamin' shade us,
We'll fin', owre late, thae frien's hae fled us.
Thy gaudy neck and breast sae fine,
Where little tinted rainbows shine,
Twitterin' like dewdrops on the thorn,
When early sunbeams paint the morn.

Again thy glancin' een o' jet
Appear like studs in siller set;
Or pearls hung in gowden ring,
That near the ladies' luglocks hing:
Thy head appears majestic drest,
Crowned wi' a bonny wavin' crest;
Or like my Peggy's gumflowers gay,
That bloom, although it be not May;

Or like the raw recruit's cockade,
Who thinks himsel' a flashy blade,
While ribbons roun' his tap he gathers,
And thinks to fear the French wi' feathers;
Or dreams o' gear and great preferment,
Because he's pimpèd for his sergeant:
But lo! the hungry days o' drillin',
Of marchin', haltin', floggin', wheelin',
Bow down his feathery brain o' sallies,
And pluck his bonnet o' its walies.

While sprucely strutting o'er the grun',
Ye spread your beauties to the sun,
And veer about wi' airy pride,
To keep afore your fairest side;
Or jink aroun' wi' airy wheel,
To hide the bareness o' your keel.

So busked beau, around the ring,
Will flirt and ogle, dance and sing;
Wi' dashing wig o' mony a shade,
To grace him when his hair is fled;
Displays his snuff-box, hands a fan,
And shows himsel' a lady's man:
But should he deign the dance to wheel up,
Or miss a foot, and cock his keel up,
What dire disgrace might intervene,
And a' his lockless lugs be seen!

Alas! for human nature's frail!
A peacock soon may lose his tail:
Yet comin' spring wi' genial heat,
Can mak' the bird again complete:
But beaux may tine, and few to see them,
What belles or barbers ne'er can gie them.

What gars ye flutter roun' your hens?
Ye'll dirty a' your bonny pens;
And raise a stour might spoil your gloss,
And gar your beauties come to loss.
Is that the way ye show your passion,
Or is't the method now in fashion?—
I truly think it is the gait,
For yonder's ane ta'en wi' the bait.

Ah, Meg, wert thou as kind to me—
Fa' in my arms thus for a wee,
I'd hae mysel' wi' feathers stuck,
And for thy sake become a buck.

Thus fools o' fashion spread their lures,
And dashin' show their outward powers;
Will shake their frills wi' fuss and din,
But, O! it's vacuum a' within.

Yet thick and thrang are Folly's bairns,
That will be caught by outward charms.
How soon we see some female pet,
And like the Pea-hen catch the bait.

So theatre nymph in borough town,
Wi' silken hose and glancin' gown,
That's no distressed wi' meikle happin,
Disclose the beauties o' her crappin';
And should that fail, she'll dance a jig,
To shaw the shin-side o' her leg,
Keen to entrap some merchant loon,
Or countra laird new come to town.
Her capper clippin's glister fine,
He never saw ought sae divine;
Wi' love he's like to break his shins,
To win a wee ayont the screens:

He casts a wink, she's kirr and couth,
And draws the water to his mouth,
Then at the lang run pumps his purse,—
Great mercy gif it be nae worse!—
Syne draws the curtain roun' her spark,
Where love works wonders in the dark.

I never saw, but I've heard say
(Folks see not wonders ilka day),
And doubtna ye hae a' heard tell,
O' peacocks wi' a fiery tail,
Might show a man his goods to han'le,
And save him meikle coal and can'le.
So, haply, he may fin' bestowed,
Some sure memorial for his gowd.
'Tis thus declining female star,
That tines her blossom in the war;
Wha's beauty's worn to shreds and patches,
When nature fails, at art she catches;
Rubs o'er wi' reams her brows and mouth—
Like long-lived birds renews her youth.
Her cheeks turned pale, supplies wi' paint,
Still breath she smoors wi' oils and mint;
E'en Nature's knowes that now are fled,
Where love in youthfu' days has played,
She'll them supply wi' teats o' woo,
That cheat the unsuspecting view:
Yet though they hum the gazing youth,
A near encounter shows the truth.
Some forward spark, on midnight ramble,
Descries their fau'ts but coal or can'le.

But O! sic borrowed charms are frail:
'Tis whispered roun', her lovers fail;

She now leaves balls and sic-like places,
And scours to fairs and countra races,
Wi' ruffs and muffs, and trappin's mony,
To hook some simple countra Johnny.
But countra John likes countra Jenny,
And nane taks tent o' gentle Fanny.
Wi' dust gets a' her walies spoiled,
Or may be waur, her wishes foiled,
She fears her freaks are near an en',
And pines awa like “Jinken's hen”:
Yet still she sighs for youthfu' sport,
And now she tries the last effort.
Wi' haly reverence in her looks,
She buys a bunch o' preachin' beuks;
And o' the faith becomes defendant,
And lives a pious independent:
Wi' former frien's has mony a battle,
But they like nae sic cantin' cattle.
Till some pert lad that lives by weavin'
Her mim-mou'd looks and sighs deceivin',
Mistaks for grace her whines and rantin',
She traps him by the bait o' cantin'.

Now some may say this is a gay joke,
Comparin' ladies to a peacock.
Can sic-like rhymers and pretenders,
That's lost their reckonin' in the genders,
Set up their face wi' men o' letters,
To spin out satires on their betters;
Wi' crabbit mou' our fau'ts to hammer?—
They'd better stap and learn their grammar.

But I can tell my learned readers,
For a' their skill in tropes and figures,

'Tis better than to seek assistance,
Frae beings that ne'er had existence.
There's mony a lengthened learned head,
Has spun out rhymes for fools to read,
Wi' heathen gods and fictions drest,
Syrens and Sylphs, and a' the rest—
Gif pick out thae from every nook,
Their rhymes might gang in little bouk.
Poets o' panegyric or satire,
Ha'e studied fiction mair than nature:
So I, like them, may look about me,
And seek hyperboles to suit me.