Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ODE TO THE BEE, by ROBERT FERGUSSON



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ODE TO THE BEE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Herds, blythsome tune your canty reeds
Last Line: That lyart time can ne'er impair.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Bees; Honey; Insects; Praise; Beekeeping; Bugs


Herds, blythsome tune your canty reeds,
And welcome to the gowany meads
The pride o' a' the insect thrang,
A stranger to the green sae lang;
Unfald ilk buss and ilka brier,
The bounties o' the gleesome year,
To him whase voice delights the spring,
Whase soughs the saftest slumbers bring.

The trees in simmer-cleething drest,
The hillocks in their greenest vest,
The brawest flow'rs rejoic'd we see,
Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee,
Blythly to skim on wanton wing
Thro' a' the fairy haunts of spring.

Whan fields hae got their dewy gift,
And dawnin breaks upo' the lift,
Then gang your wa's thro' hight and howe,
Seek caller haugh or sunny knowe,
Or ivy'd craig, or burnbank brae,
Whare industry shall bid ye gae,
For hiney or for waxen store,
To ding sad poortith frae your door.

Could feckless creature, man, be wise,
The simmer o' his life to prize,
In winter he might fend fu bauld,
His eild unkend to nippin cauld,
Yet thir, alas! are antrin fock
That lade their scape wi winter stock.
Auld age maist feckly glowrs right dour
Upo' the ailings of the poor,
Wha hope for nae comforting, save
That dowie dismal house, the grave.
Then, feeble man, be wise take tent
How industry can fetch content:
Behad the bees whare'er they wing,
Or thro' the bonny bow'rs of spring,
Whare vi'lets or whare roses blaw,
And siller dew-draps nightly fa,
Or whan on open bent they're seen,
On heather-bell or thristle green;
The hiney's still as sweet that flows
Frae thistle cald or kendling rose.

Frae this the human race may learn
Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn,
Whether they tramp life's thorny way,
Or thro' the sunny vineyard stray.

Instructive bee! attend me still,
Owr a' my labours sey your skill:
For thee shall hiney-suckles rise,
With lading to your busy thighs,
And ilka shrub surround my cell,
Whareon ye like to hum and dwell:
My trees in bourachs owr my ground
Shall fend ye frae ilk blast o' wind;
Nor e'er shall herd, wi ruthless spike,
Delve out the treasures frae your byke,
But in my fence be safe, and free
To live, and work, and sing like me.

Like thee, by fancy wing'd, the Muse
Scuds ear' and heartsome owr the dews,
Fu vogie, and fu blyth to crap
The winsome flow'rs frae Nature's lap,
Twining her living garlands there,
That lyart time can ne'er impair.





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