The Poems of Robert Fergusson Edited by Matthew P. McDiarmid |
 |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
A Burlesque Elegy on the amputation of a Student's Hair, before his Orders.
|
|
|
|
 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
A Burlesque Elegy on the amputation of a Student's Hair, before his Orders.
O sad catastrophe! O event dire!
How shall the loss, the heavy loss be born?
Or how the muse attune the plaintive lyre,
To sing of Strephon with his ringlets shorn?
How shall the loss, the heavy loss be born?
Or how the muse attune the plaintive lyre,
To sing of Strephon with his ringlets shorn?
Say ye, who can divine the mighty cause,
From whence this modern circumcision springs?
Why such oppressive and such rigid laws
Are still attendant on religious things?
From whence this modern circumcision springs?
Why such oppressive and such rigid laws
Are still attendant on religious things?
Alas! poor Strephon, to the stern decree
Which prunes your tresses, are you doom'd to yield?
Soon shall your caput, like the blasted tree,
Diffuse its faded honours o'er the field.
Which prunes your tresses, are you doom'd to yield?
Soon shall your caput, like the blasted tree,
Diffuse its faded honours o'er the field.
30
Now let the solemn sounds of mourning swell,
And wake sad echoes to prolong the lay;
For hark! methinks I hear the tragic knell;
This hour bespeaks the barber on his way.
And wake sad echoes to prolong the lay;
For hark! methinks I hear the tragic knell;
This hour bespeaks the barber on his way.
O razor! yet thy poignant edge suspend;
O yet indulge me with a short delay,
Till I once more pourtray my youthful friend,
'Ere his proud locks are scatter'd on the clay.
O yet indulge me with a short delay,
Till I once more pourtray my youthful friend,
'Ere his proud locks are scatter'd on the clay.
'Ere the huge wig, in formal curls array'd,
With pulvile pregnant, shall o'ershade his face;
Or, like the wide umbrella, lend its aid,
To banish lustre from the sacred place.
With pulvile pregnant, shall o'ershade his face;
Or, like the wide umbrella, lend its aid,
To banish lustre from the sacred place.
Mourn, O ye Zephyrs! for, alas! no more
His waving ringlets shall your call obey;
For, ah! the stubborn wig must now be wore,
Since Strephon's locks are scatter'd on the clay.
His waving ringlets shall your call obey;
For, ah! the stubborn wig must now be wore,
Since Strephon's locks are scatter'd on the clay.
Amanda too, in bitter anguish sighs,
And grieves the metamorphosis to see;
Mourn not, Amanda, for the hair that lies
Dead on the ground shall be reviv'd for thee.
And grieves the metamorphosis to see;
Mourn not, Amanda, for the hair that lies
Dead on the ground shall be reviv'd for thee.
Some skilful artist of a French frizeur,
With graceful ringlets shall thy temples bind,
And cull the precious relics from the floor,
Which yet may flutter in the wanton wind.
With graceful ringlets shall thy temples bind,
And cull the precious relics from the floor,
Which yet may flutter in the wanton wind.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |