The Last Wasp of Scotland

Poor insect! rash as rare!—Thy sovereign, sure, Hath driven thee to Siberia in disgrace— Else what delusion could thy sense allure To buzz and sting in this unwholesome place, Where e'en the hornet's hoarser, and the race Of filmy wing are feeble? Honey here (Scarce as its rhyme) thou find'st not. Ah, beware Thy golden mail, to starved Arachne dear! Though fingers famed, that thrill the immortal lyre, Have pent thee up, a second Asmodeus, I wail thy doom—I warm thee by the fire, And blab our secrets—do not thou betray us! I give thee liberty, I give thee breath, To fly from Athens, Eurus, Doctors, Death!!"

Sooth'd by the strain, the Wasp thus made reply— (The first, last time he spoke not waspishly)— "Too late, kind Poet! comes thine aid, thy song, To aught first starved, then bottled up so long. Yet, for the warmth of this thy genial fire, Take a Wasp's blessing ere his race expire:— Never may provost's foot find entrance here! Never may bailie's voice invade thine ear! Never may housemaid wipe the verd antique From coin of thine—Assyrian, Celt, or Greek! Never may Eurus cross thy path!—to thee May winds and wynds alike propitious be! And when thou diest—(live a thousand years!)— May friends fill classic bottles with their tears! I can no more—receive my parting gasp!— Did Scotland mourn the last, last lingering Wasp!"