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HAME CONTENT: A SATIRE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Some fock, like bees, fu glegly rin
Last Line: Wha mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Inheritance & Succession; Money; Heirs


Some fock, like bees, fu glegly rin
To bykes bang'd fu o' strife and din,
And thieve and huddle crumb by crumb,
Till they have scrapt the dautit plumb,
Then craw fell crously o' their wark,
Tell owr their turners mark by mark,
Yet darna think to lowse the pose,
To aid their neighbours' ails and woes.

Gif gowd can fetter thus the heart,
And gar us act sae base a part,
Shall man, a niggard near-gawn elf!
Rin to the tether's end for pelf;
Learn ilka cunzied scoundrel's trick,
When a's done sell his saul to Nick?
I trou they've coft the purchase dear,
That gang sic lengths for warldly gear.

Now whan the dog-day heats begin
To birsel and to peel the skin,
May I lie streekit at my ease,
Beneath the caller shady trees,
(Far frae the din o' Borrowstown)
Whare water plays the haughs bedown,
To jook the simmer's rigour there,
And breathe a while the caller air
'Mang herds, an' honest cottar fock,
That till the farm and feed the flock;
Careless o' mair, wha never fash
To lade their kist wi' useless cash,
But thank the gods for what they've sent
O' health eneugh, and blyth content,
An' pith, that helps them to stravaig
Owr ilka cleugh and ilka craig,
Unkend to a' the weary granes
That aft arise frae gentler banes,
On easy-chair that pamper'd lie,
Wi banefu viands gustit high,
And turn and fald their weary clay,
To rax and gaunt the live-lang day.

Ye sages, tell, was man e'er made
To dree this hatefu sluggard trade?
Steekit frae Nature's beauties a'
That daily on his presence ca;
At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine
For fav'rite dishes, fav'rite wine:
Come then, shake off thir sluggish ties,
And wi the bird o' dawning rise;
On ilka auk the clouds hae spread
Wi blobs o' dew a pearly bed;
Frae falds nae mair the owsen rout,
But to the fatt'ning claver lout,
Whare they may feed at heart's content,
Unyokit frae their winter's stent.

Unyoke then, man, an' binna sweer
To ding a hole in ill-hain'd gear;
O think that eild, wi wyly fitt,
Is wearing nearer bit by bit;
Gin yence he claws you wi his paw,
What's siller for? Fiend haet awa,
But gowden playfair, that may please
The second sharger till he dees.

Some daft chiel reads, and takes advice;
The chaise is yokit in a trice;
Awa drives he like huntit deil,
And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel,
Till he's Lord kens how far awa,
At Italy, or Well o' Spaw,
Or to Montpelier's safter air;
For far aff fowls hae feathers fair.

There rest him weel; for eith can we
Spare mony glakit gowks like he;
They'll tell whare Tibur's waters rise;
What sea receives the drumly prize,
That never wi their feet hae mett
The marches o' their ain estate.

The Arno and the Tibur lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang;
But, save the reverence of schools!
They're baith but lifeless dowy pools.
Dought they compare wi bonny Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer-bead?
Or are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs or banks o' Tay?
Tho' there the herds can jink the show'rs
'Mang thriving vines an' myrtle bow'rs,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While echo's tongue commends their pains,
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi simple, saft, bewitching art.
On Leader haughs an' Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.

Come, Fancy, come, and let us tread
The simmer's flow'ry velvet bed,
And a' your springs delighfu lowse
On Tweeda's banks or Cowdenknowes,
That, taen wi thy inchanting sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang,
Sae pleas'd, they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain;
Soon will they guess ye only wear
The simple garb o' Nature here;
Mair comely far, an' fair to sight
Whan in her easy cleething dight,
Than in disguise ye was before
On Tibur's, or on Arno's shore.

O Bangour! now the hills and dales
Nae mair gie back thy tender tales!
The birks on Yarrow now deplore
Thy mournfu muse has left the shore:
Near what bright burn or crystal spring
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The muse shall there, wi wat'ry ee,
Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowy dame!
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Wha mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.





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