Classic Poem

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 an' fashion
In vogue amang the flee creation,
That they, like buskit belles an' beaus,
May crook their mu' fu' sour at those
Whase weird is still to creep, alas!
Unnotic'd 'mang the humble grass;
While ye, 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 an' gay;
In her habuliments a while
Ye may your former sell beguile,
An' ding awa' the vexing thought
O' hourly dwyning into nought,
By beenging to your foppish brither's,
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 e'ening spreads her wing sae calm;
But whan she grins an' glowrs sae dow'r
Frae Borean houff in angry show'r,
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 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-yard and fruits return:
How could 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 excell?
Now shou'd our sclates wi' hailstanes ring,
What cabbage-fauld wad screen your wing;
Say, fluttering fairy; wer't thy hap
To light beneath braw Nanny's cap,
Wad she, proud butterfly of May!
In pity lat you skaithless stay?
The furies 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 and kail-yard,
Grows politician, scours to court,
Whare he's the laughing stock and sport
O' Ministers, wha jeer an' jibe,
An' heeze his hopes wi' thought o' bribe,
Till in the end they flae him bare,
Leave him to poortith, and to care.
Their fleetchin words owr late he sees,
He trudges hame, repines, and dies.
Sic be their fa' wha dirk thir ben
In blackest business nae their ain;
An' may they scad their lips fu' leal,
That dip their spoons in ither's kail.