Classic Poem

The Scottish hinds, too poor to house
In frosty nights their starving cows,
While not a blade of grass, or hay,
Appears from Michaelmas to May;
Must let their cattle range in vain
For food, along the barren plain;
Meagre and lank with fasting grown,
And nothing left but skin and bone;
Exposed to want, and wind, and weather,
They just keep life and soul together,
Till summer showers and evening dew,
Again the verdant glebe renew;
And as the vegetables rise,
The famished cow her wants supplies;
Without an ounce of last year's flesh,
Whate'er she gains is young and fresh;
Grows plump and round, and full of mettle,
As rising from Medea's kettle;
With youth and beauty to enchant
Europa's counterfeit gallant.

Why, Stella, should you knit your brow,
If I compare you to the cow?
'Tis just the case: for you have fasted
So long till all your flesh is wasted,
And must against the warmer days
Be sent to Quilca down to graze;
Where mirth, and exercise, and air,
Will soon your appetite repair.
The nutriment will from within
Round all your body, plump your skin;
Will agitate the lazy flood,
And fill your veins with sprightly blood:
Nor flesh nor blood will be the same,
Nor aught of Stella, but the name;
For, what was ever understood
By human kind, but flesh and blood?
And if your flesh and blood be new,
You'll be no more your former you;
But for a blooming nymph will pass,
Just fifteen, coming summer's grass:
Your jetty locks with garlands crowned,
While all the squires from nine miles round,
Attended by a brace of curs,
With jockey-boots, and silver spurs;
No less than justices o' quorum,
Their cowboys bearing cloaks before 'em,
Shall leave deciding broken pates,
To kiss your steps at Quilca gates;
But, lest you should my skill disgrace,
Come back before you're out of case;
For if to Michaelmas you stay,
The new-born flesh will melt away;
The squires in scorn will fly the house
For better game, and look for grouse:
But here, before the frost can mar it,
We'll make it firm with beef and claret.