The Poems of Robert Fergusson Edited by Matthew P. McDiarmid |
 |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
On seeing a Butterfly in the Street.
|
|
|
 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
On seeing a Butterfly in the Street.
Daft gowk, in Macaroni dress,
Are ye come here to shew your face,
Bowden wi' pride o' simmer gloss,
To cast a dash at Reikie's cross;
And glowr at mony twa-legg'd creature,
Flees braw by art, tho' worms by nature?
Are ye come here to shew your face,
Bowden wi' pride o' simmer gloss,
To cast a dash at Reikie's cross;
And glowr at mony twa-legg'd creature,
Flees braw by art, tho' worms by nature?
155
Like country Laird in city cleeding,
Ye're come to town to lear' good breeding;
To bring ilk darling toast and fashion,
In vogue amang the flee creation,
That they, like buskit Belles and Beaus,
May crook their mou' fu' sour at those
Whase weird is still to creep, alas!
Unnotic'd 'mang the humble grass;
While you, wi' wings new buskit trim,
Can far frae yird and reptiles skim;
Newfangle grown wi' new got form,
You soar aboon your mither Worm.
Ye're come to town to lear' good breeding;
To bring ilk darling toast and fashion,
In vogue amang the flee creation,
That they, like buskit Belles and Beaus,
May crook their mou' fu' sour at those
Whase weird is still to creep, alas!
Unnotic'd 'mang the humble grass;
While you, wi' wings new buskit trim,
Can far frae yird and reptiles skim;
Newfangle grown wi' new got form,
You soar aboon your mither Worm.
Kind Nature lent but for a day
Her wings to make ye sprush and gay;
In her habuliments a while
Ye may your former sel' beguile,
And ding awa' the vexing thought
Of hourly dwining into nought,
By beenging to your foppish brithers,
Black Corbies dress'd in Peacocks feathers;
Like thee they dander here an' there,
Whan simmer's blinks are warm an' fair,
An' loo to snuff the healthy balm
Whan ev'nin' spreads her wing sae calm;
But whan she girns an' glowrs sae dowr
Frae Borean houff in angry show'r,
Like thee they scoug frae street or field,
An' hap them in a lyther bield;
For they war' never made to dree
The adverse gloom o' Fortune's eie,
Nor ever pried life's pining woes,
Nor pu'd the prickles wi' the rose.
Her wings to make ye sprush and gay;
In her habuliments a while
Ye may your former sel' beguile,
And ding awa' the vexing thought
Of hourly dwining into nought,
By beenging to your foppish brithers,
Black Corbies dress'd in Peacocks feathers;
Like thee they dander here an' there,
Whan simmer's blinks are warm an' fair,
An' loo to snuff the healthy balm
Whan ev'nin' spreads her wing sae calm;
But whan she girns an' glowrs sae dowr
Frae Borean houff in angry show'r,
Like thee they scoug frae street or field,
An' hap them in a lyther bield;
For they war' never made to dree
The adverse gloom o' Fortune's eie,
Nor ever pried life's pining woes,
Nor pu'd the prickles wi' the rose.
Poor Butterfly! thy case I mourn,
To green kail-yeard and fruits return:
How cou'd you troke the Mavis' note
For “penny pies all-piping hot?”
Can Lintie's music be compar'd
Wi' gruntles frae the City-guard?
Or can our flow'rs at ten hours bell
The gowan or the spink excel.
To green kail-yeard and fruits return:
156
For “penny pies all-piping hot?”
Can Lintie's music be compar'd
Wi' gruntles frae the City-guard?
Or can our flow'rs at ten hours bell
The gowan or the spink excel.
Now shou'd our sclates wi' hailstanes ring,
What cabbage fald wad screen your wing?
Say, fluttering fairy! wer't thy hap
To light beneath braw Nany's cap,
Wad she, proud butterfly of May!
In pity lat you skaithless stay;
The fury's glancing frae her ein
Wad rug your wings o' siller sheen,
That, wae for thee! far, far outvy
Her Paris artist's finest dye;
Then a' your bonny spraings wad fall,
An' you a worm be left to crawl.
What cabbage fald wad screen your wing?
Say, fluttering fairy! wer't thy hap
To light beneath braw Nany's cap,
Wad she, proud butterfly of May!
In pity lat you skaithless stay;
The fury's glancing frae her ein
Wad rug your wings o' siller sheen,
That, wae for thee! far, far outvy
Her Paris artist's finest dye;
Then a' your bonny spraings wad fall,
An' you a worm be left to crawl.
To sic mishanter rins the laird
Wha quats his ha'-house an' kail-yard,
Grows politician, scours to court,
Whare he's the laughing-stock and sport
Of Ministers, wha jeer an' jibe,
And heeze his hopes wi' thought o' bribe,
Till in the end they flae him bare,
Leave him to poortith, and to care.
Their fleetching words o'er late he sees,
He trudges hame, repines and dies.
Wha quats his ha'-house an' kail-yard,
Grows politician, scours to court,
Whare he's the laughing-stock and sport
Of Ministers, wha jeer an' jibe,
And heeze his hopes wi' thought o' bribe,
Till in the end they flae him bare,
Leave him to poortith, and to care.
Their fleetching words o'er late he sees,
He trudges hame, repines and dies.
Sic be their fa' wha dirk thir ben
In blackest business no their ain;
And may they scad their lips fu' leal,
That dip their spoons in ither's kail.
In blackest business no their ain;
And may they scad their lips fu' leal,
That dip their spoons in ither's kail.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |