LOTOS EATING

WHEN nor’west winds with sullen roar
Swept round the ricks and stables,
When winter, beaten off before,
Began to turn the tables,
When all was snug in barn and byre,
When autumn rains were pouring,
When bairns were ranting round the fire
That up the lug was roaring,

Then said our melancholy Jacques,
As he his soles was heating,
“Let’s lay aside the plow and ax—
I go for lotos eating.”
“Oh ho,” said Fritz, with smiling phiz,
“You’ve read to your confusion.
You ought to know the lotos is
An Eastern institution.

“No doubt its powers are past belief—
I’d like to taste the lotos.
But you will scarcely find the leaf
Among our hardy voters.”

Jacques hummed the Lass o’ Balloch myle:
Said he, “It’s immaterial,
And let us take a friendly smile—
Pass round the liquid cereal.”

(We took our rye in liquid form.)
So each drank off his liquor,
The while outside the driving storm
Grew heavier and thicker.
We spread a bearskin on the floor
And roused the sparkling fire,
Then latched and barred the shaking door,
For still the wind rose higher.

With coat and overcoat and vest
We improvised three couches,
Then stretched our lazy limbs in rest,
And drew our pipes and pouches.
And as we blew an idle cloud
The while the storm was beating,
Said Jacques, “I’ll leave it to the crowd
That this is lotos eating.”