Classic Poem

PART I.

Gaudy bird, of gorgeous hue,
How kind has nature been to you,
In formin' a' your feathers fair,
Your weel fledg'd wings, an' stars so rare,
Glancin' by day, but dim by night,
Right fair for show, but dull for light:
Like fickle frien's, when Fortune twines us,
Will shaw their face, an' proffer kindness;
But shou'd Misfortune's gloamin' shade us,
We'll fin', o'er late, thae frien's hae fled us.
Thy gaudy neck an' breast sae fine,
Where little tinted rainbows shine,
Twitterin' like dew-drops on the thorn,
When early sun-beams paint the morn.
Again, thy glancin' een o' jet
Appear like studs in siller set;
Or pearls hung in gowden ring,
That near the ladies' luglocks hing:
Thy head appears majestic drest,
Crown'd wi' a bonny wavin' crest:
Or like my Peggy's gumflow'rs gay,
That bloom although it be not May;
Or like the raw recruit's cockade,
Who thinks himsel' a flashy blade,
While ribbons roun' his tap he gathers,
An' thinks to fear the French wi' feathers:
Or dreams o' gear an' great preferment,
Because he's pimped for his serjeant:
But, lo! the hung'ry days o' drillin',
Of marchin', haltin', floggin', wheelin',
Bow down his feath'ry brain o' sallies,
An' pluck his bonnet o' its walies.
While sprucely strutting o'er the groun
Ye spread your beauties to the sun,
An' veer about wi' airy pride,
To keep afore your fairest side;
Or jink aroun' wi' airy wheel,
To hide the bareness o' your keel.
So busked beau, around the ring,
Will flirt and ogle, dance an' sing;
Wi' dashin' wig o' mony a shade,
To grace him whan his hair is fled;
Displays his snuff-box, hands a fan,
An' shows himsel' a lady's man:
But shou'd he deign the dance to wheel up,
Or miss a foot, an' cock his keel up,
What dire disgrace might intervene,
An' a' his lockless lugs be seen!
Alas! for human nature's frail!
A peacock soon may lose his tail:
Yet comin' spring, wi' genial heat,
Can mak' the bird again complete:
But beaux may tine, an' few to see them,
What belles or barbers ne'er can gi'e them.
What gars ye flutter roun' your hens?
Ye'll dirty a' your bonny pens;
An' raise a stowre might spoil your gloss,
An' gar your beauties come t' loss.
Is that the way ye shaw your passion,
Or is't the method now in fashion? —
I truly think it is the gate,
For yonder's ane tane wi' the bait.
Ah, Meg, wert thou as kin' to me —
Fa' in my arms thus for a wee,
I'd ha'e mysel' wi' feathers stuck,
An' for thy sake become a buck.
Thus fools o' fashion spread their lures,
An' dashin' shaw their outward pow'rs;
Will shake their frills wi' fuss and din,
But, O! its vacuum within.
Yet, thick an' thrang are Folly's bairns.
That will be caught by outward charms.
How soon we see some female pet,
An' like the Pea-hen catch the bait:
So theatre nymph, in borough town,
Wi' silken hose an' glancin' gown,
That's no distress'd wi' meikle happin',
Disclose the beauties o' her crappin'
An' shou'd that fail, she'll dance a jig,
To shaw the shin-side o' her leg,
Keen to entrap some merchant loun,
Or countra laird new come to town.
Her capper clippin's glister fine,
He never saw ought sae divine;
Wi' love he's like to break his shins,
To win a wee ayont the screens:
He casts a wink, she's kirr and couth,
An' draws the water to his mouth,
Then at the lang-run pumps his purse, —
Great mercy gif it be nae warse! —
Syne draws the curtain roun' her spark,
Whar love works wonders in the dark.
I never saw, but I've heard say
(Folks see not wonders ilka day,)
An' doubtna ye ha'e a' heard tell,
O' peacocks wi' a fiery tail,
Might shaw a man his goods to han'le,
An' save him meikle coal an' can'le.
So, haply, he may fin' bestow'd,
Some sure memorial for his gowd.
'Tis thus declining female star,
That tines her blossom in the war;
Wha's beauty's worn to shreds and patches,
Whan nature fails, at art she catches;
Rubs o'er wi' reams her brows an' mouth —
Like long-liv'd burds renews her youth.
Her cheeks turn'd pale, supplies wi' paint,
Stale breath she smoors wi' oils an' mint;
E'en Nature's knows that now are fled,
Whare love in youthfu' days has play'd,
She'll them supply wi' teats o' woo,
That cheat the unsuspecting view:
Yet tho' they hum the gazing youth,
A near encounter shaws the truth.
Some forward spark, on midnight ramble,
Descries their fau'ts but coal or can'le;
But O, sic borrow'd charms are frail:
'Tis whisper'd roun' her lover's fail;
She now leaves balls and siclike places,
An' scours to fairs an' countra races,
Wi' ruffs an' muffs, an' trappin's mony,
For to draw in some countra Johnny.
But countra John likes countra Jenny,
An' nane tak's tent o' gentle Fanny.
Wi' dust gets a' her walies spoil'd,
Or, may be waur, her wishes foil'd.
She fears her freaks are near an end,
An pines awa like Jinken's hen:
Yet still she sighs for youthfu' sport,
An' now she tries the last effort.
Wi' haly rev'rence in her leuks,
She buys a bunch o' preachin' beuks;
An o' the faith becomes defendant,
An' lives a pious independent:
Wi' former frien's has mony a battle,
But they like nae sic cantin' cattle;
Till some pert lad that lives by weavin',
Her mim-mou'd looks an' sighs deceivin',
Mistak's for grace her whines an' rantin',
She traps him by the bait o' cantin'.
Now some may say this is a gay joke,
Comparin' ladies to a Peacock;
Can siclike rhymers and pretenders,
That's lost their reck'nin' in the genders,
Set up their face wi' men o' letters,
To spin out satires on their betters;
Wi' crabbed mou' our fauts to hammer? —
They'd better stap an' learn their grammar,
But I can tell my learned readers,
For a' their skill in tropes an' figures,
'Tis better than to seek assistance,
Frae beings that ne'er had existence.
There's mony a lengthen'd learned head,
Has spun out rhymes for fools to read,
Wi' heathen gods an' fictions drest,
Syrens an' Sylphs, an' a' the rest —
Gif pick out thae from every nook,
Their rhymes might gang in little bouk.
Poets o' panegyric or satire,
Ha'e studied fiction mair than nature:
So I, like them, may look about me,
An' seek for hyperboles to suit me.