Poetry
To a Blackbird Caught in a Net
YE'RE done for noo, in a herrin' net ye're nickit, The fear o' death's yer e'e, and yer heart's i' yer moo ; Ye canna stamach the rasps ye fain would hae pickit, And ye'll never fihd the holie ye sneakit through.
Puir beast ! Ye've fluttered and daudit i' dumb distractioni But yer rievin' neb is a' that the gar'ner sees. He'll thraw yer neck wi' a grumly satisfaction, And care nae a preen for yer whistle amang the trees.
Ye've had yer fling, and yer full o' the fruits forbidden ; Ye turned up yer neb at the fare o' the country-side ; Ye made for the mansion, and noo ye maun lie on the midden—. A peetifu' end to yer pipin' and a' yer pride.
But bide ye still ! There's nane o's to mend anither. When rasps are ripe and occasion's quite joco, We naither tak tent o' nets, nor tak time to swither. If we jeuk the Gar'ner we're lucky. Away ye go 3. M. &dun, •
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