The Tattie-Bogle

A farmer once, to scare the birds away, 
O'er his poor seeds set up, to leer and ogle, 
A raffish moon-face, stuffed with straw and hay, 
A tattie-bogle; 

And rook and daw and stare their pinions spread 
Incontinent; for, so they judged the matter, 
Some scowling foe stood there, and off they fled 
With startled chatter. 

A week the portent stood in sun and rain 
And fluttered rags of dread. A sparrow, nathless, 
Whose nestlings cried, dashed down and snatched a grain, 
And got off scathless. 

Emboldened, back she flew; to such good end 
The others followed, craning and alarmful, 
To find the monster, if perhaps no friend, 
At least unharmful. 

To-day the bogle wags, a thing of jest 
And open scorn: the very pipits mock it; 
A jenny-wren, I 'm told, has built her nest 
In one torn pocket! 

Heart of my heart, and so be aught of awe 
That darkens on your path: the buckram rogue 'll 
Prove, when you face him, but a ghost of straw — 
A tattie-bogle!