TO A NESTLING GREEN LINNET
Cease, infant songster! why complain?
Nae school-boy rude wi’ heart o’ stane,
Or vagrant herd o’ rougher mein,
Thus gars thee mourn;
Come wi’ the bard and be his ain,
An’ leave the thorn.
Thy flow’ry hame thus to forego,
’Tis true is surely cause of woe:
An anxious mother’s soothing throe,
An’ tender father:
But yet, thou lovely pris’ner, know,
The bard has neither.
For hawk’s, or pie’s, or eagle’s ire,
Thou needstna frae thy perch retire:
Or should grimalkin at thy wire
Her visage offer:
Her lives, until the nine expire,
Shall sprawling suffer.
They sweet retreat shall stinted be,
In nought save love an’ libertie:
Frae a’ extremes they’re wisely free,
That quietly want them:
An’ gude for mony mair than thee,
They ne’er had kent them.
– George Dugall (Ulster poet, 1790-1855)
[daily log: walking, 4km]