Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET, by ROBERT FERGUSSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Daft gowk, in macaroni dress, / are ye come here to shew your face
Last Line: That dip their spoons in ither's kail.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Fools; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens; Idiots


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?

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.

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 dwyning 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 dour
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 ee,
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 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 excel?

Now should 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 furies glancing frae her een
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-yeard,
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 owr late he sees,
He trudges hame, repines and dees.

Sic be their fa wha dirk thereben
In blackest business no their ain;
And may they scad their lips fu leal,
That dip their spoons in ither's kail.





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