Volume 146 — 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 prove aught of awe That darkens on your path; the buckram rogue'll Stand, when you face him, but a ghost of straw— A Tattie-Bogle!