IN ANSWER TO A LETTER ON THE ANATOMY OF THE SONNET

By James Whitcomb Riley

Oho! ye sunny, sonnet-singin’ vagrant,

Flauntin’ your simmer sangs in sic a weather!

Ane maist can straik the bluebells and the heather

Keekin’ aboon the snaw and bloomin’ fragrant!

Whiles you, ye whustlin’ brither, sic a lay grant

O’ a’ these janglin’, wranglin’ sweets thegither,

I weel maun perk my ain doon-drappin’ feather

And pipe a wee: Tho’ boisterous and flagrant

The winds blow whuzzle-whazzle rhymes that trickle

Fra’ aff my tongue less limpid than I'd ha'e them,

I in their little music hap a mickle

O’ canty praises, a’ asklent to weigh them

Agen your pride, and smile to see them tickle

The warm nest o’ the heart wherein I lay them.