DAFT gowk, in macaroni dress,
Are ye come here to shaw your face,
Bowden wi' pride o' simmer gloss,
To cast a dash at Reikie's cross;
An' glowr at mony a twa-legg'd creature, Flees, braw by art, tho' worms by nature?
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 an' beaux,
May crook their mou' fu' sour at those
ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET.
Whase weird is still to creep, alas !
Unnotic'd 'mang the humble grass;
While you, wi' wings new buskit trim,
Can far frae yird an' reptiles skim;
Newfangle grown wi' new-got form,
You soar aboon your mither worm,
Kind Nature lent but for a day
Her wings to mak ye sprush and gay;
In her habuliments a while
Ye may your former sell beguile,
And ding awa' th vexing thought
O' hourly dwinin' into nought,
By beengin' to your foppish brithers,
Black corbies dress'd in peacock's feathers;
Like thee they dander here an' there,
Whan Simmer's blinks are warm an' fair,
An' lo'e to snuff the healthy balm,
Whan E'er'n' spreads her wing sae calm;
ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET.
་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་、
But whan she girns an glowrs sae dour
Like thee they scour frae street or field,
An' hap them in a lyther bield;
For they were never made to dree
The adverse gloom o' Fortune's e'e,
Nor ever pried life's pinin' woes,
Nor pu'd the prickles wi' the rose.
Poor Butterfly! thy case I
To green kail-yard an' fruits return:
How could you troke the mavis' note
For "penny pies all-pipin' hot?"
Can lintie's music be compar'd
Wi' gruntles frae the City Guard?
Or can our flow'rs, at ten hour's bell,
The gowan or the spink excel?
Now shou'd our sclates wi' hailstaines ring, What cabbage-fauld wad screen your wing;
ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET.
Say, fluttering fairy! wert thy hap
To light beneath braw Nanny's cap,
Wad she, proud butterfly o' May!
In pity let you skaithless gae?
The furies glancing frae her een
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 quits his ha'-house and kail-yard,
Grows politician, scours to court,
Whare he's the laughing-stock and sport
O' Ministers, wha jeer an' jibe,
An' heese his hopes wi' thought o' bribe,
Till in the end they flae him bare,
Leave him to poortith, an' to care.
ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET.
Their fleetchin' words owre late he sees,
He trudges hame, repines, an' dies.
Sic be their fa' wha dirk their ben In blackest business nae their ain; An' may they scad their lips fu' leal, That dip their spoons in ither's kail.
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