Monday
A poem came readily to mind as I watched the moment, during last week’s vice-presidential debate between Mike Pence and Kamala Harris, when a fly nestled in Pence’s hair and remained there for a full two minutes. As one Dickinson-quoting wag put it, “I heard a fly buzz when I lied.” But that’s not the lyric I thought of.
In “To a Louse,” Robert Burns moralizes after witnessing a louse (or “crowlin ferlie”/ crawling marvel) in a fine lady’s hat. Writing in dialect, Burns notes that it would have been all very well if this “ugly, creepin, blastit wonner [occupant]” were found squatting [“squattle”] upon a beggar’s temple [“haffit”], a housewife’s flannel outfit [“flainen toy”], or a young boy’s waistcoat [“wyliecoat”]. Humiliating a beautiful lady by settling in her fine bonnet [or “Lunardi”], however, is a step to far. “How daur ye do’t?” he asks before considering administering a dose of poison [“mercurial rozet,/ Or fell, red smeddum.”]
In other words, do not strut boldly [“strunt rarely”] but carry yourself modestly. Jenny, who is proudly tossing her head and spreading her beauty abroad, is apparently too full of herself. The louse brings her down to earth.
As did Pence’s fly. Conservative columnist George Will, who once described the vice president as a cross between Elmer Gantry and Uriah Heep (here’s my blog post on his comparison ), set off a nation-wide google search with the descriptor “oleaginous” [oily or greasy]. As if to prove him right, it appears that the fly found a home in Pence’s oil-stiffened hair.
The sanctimonious Pence insisted on mansplaining to and talking over both Harris and moderator Susan Page. Would he consider it a gift to see himself as we see him? That would take more humility that we’ve seen him demonstrate.
To a Louse Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? Your impudence protects you sairly; I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace; Tho’, faith! I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner, How daur ye set your fit upon her- Sae fine a lady? Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith! in some beggar’s haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whaur horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle Your thick plantations. Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight, Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right, Till ye’ve got on it- The verra tapmost, tow’rin height O’ Miss’ bonnet. My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an’ grey as ony groset: O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t, Wad dress your droddum. I wad na been surpris’d to spy You on an auld wife’s flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy, On’s wyliecoat; But Miss’ fine Lunardi! fye! How daur ye do’t? O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An’ set your beauties a’ abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie’s makin: Thae winks an’ finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin. O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, An’ foolish notion: What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us, An’ ev’n devotion!
Previous posts on small creatures (including Barack Obama’s own run-in with a fly):
Obama and Donne’s Seductive Flea
Emily Dickinson’s Deathbed Fly
Scott Bates on the Cosmic Meaning of Flushing Flies
