BEFORE her hive, a paughty bee
Observ'd a humble midding flie,
And proudly speer'd what brought her there,
And with what front she durst repair
Amang the regents of the air.
"It sets ye well," the fly reply'd,
"To quarrel with sic sawcy pride.
They're daft indeed has ought to do
With thrawin contentious fowk like you."
"Why, scoundrel you," return'd the bee,
"What nation is sae wise as we?
Best laws and policy is ours
And our repast the fragant flowers.
No sordid nasty trade we drive,
But with sweet honey fill the hive,
Honey maist gratefu' to the taste,
On which the gods themsells may feast.
Out of my sight, vile wretch, whose tongue
Is daily slacking throw the dung.
Vile spirits, filthily content
To feed on stinking excrement!"
The fly replied, in sober way,
"Faith we maun live as well's we may.
Glad poverty was ne'er a vice,
But sure, ill-natur'd passion is.
Your honey's sweet; but then how tart
And bitter's your malicious heart!
In making laws you copy heaven,
But in your conduct how uneven!
To fash at ony time a fae,
Ye'll never stick ye'r sells to slae;
And skaith your sell mair sickerly
Than e'er ye can your enemy.
At that rate, ane had better have
Less talents, if they can behave
Discreet and less their passion's slave."
Afore her hive, a pauchtie bee
Observed a humble midden flee,
An proodly speered what brocht her thare,
An wi what front shae durst repair
Amang the regents o the air.
"It sets ye weel," the flee replied,
"Ti quarrel wi sic saucie pride.
Thay're daft indeed haes ocht ti dae
Wi thrawin contentious fowk like yae."
"Why, scoondrel ye," returned the bee,
"What nation is sae wice as we?
Best laws an policy is oors
An oor repast the fragant flooers.
Nae sordid nestie trade we drive,
But wi sweet hinnie fill the hive,
Hinnie maist gratefu til the taste,
On whilk the gods thaimsels may feist.
Oot o ma sicht, vile wratch, whase tung
Is daily slackin throwe the dung.
Vile speerits, filthily content
Ti feed on stinkin excrement!"
The flee replied, in sober wey,
"Faith we man leeve as weel's we may.
Gled poverty wes neer a vice,
But shuir, ill-naitured passion is.
Yer hinnie's sweet; but than hoo tairt
An bitter's yer maleecious hairt!
In maikin laws ye copy heiven,
But in yer conduct hoo unaiven!
Ti fash at onie time a fae,
Ye'll niver stick yersels ti slae;
An skaith yersel mair seekerly
Than e'er ye can yer enemy.
At that rett, ane haed better have
Less talents, yif thay can behave
Discreet, an less thair passion's sclave."