BY IAN
HOYLE, S. J.
A beetle
is the strangest friend
To love
and cherish and defend.
But in my
pocket safely dwells
A beetle
prettier than sea-shells
And
though he’s not a priceless treasure.
He’s yet
a simple thing of pleasure.
His
armour, emerald green and gold,
Will
shine and glitter when I hold
Him in
the glancing light of noon,
Or roll
him in the silver moon.
I trust
you will not think it funny
(When
others love a rat or Bunny)
That I
should make a lot of fuss
About a
golden beetle thus.
My
fondness nearly cost me pain,
As, on a
day, I feared the cane,
For
during class my beetle stole
Forth
from my pockets hiding-hole.
However,
showing no surprise,
My master
turned away his eyes.
One day,
a kirk-tree’s leafy spray
Revealed
my beetle gone astray.
I knew
him, having drawn a crest
Upon his
shield and armoured breast;
And as he
sparkled on the stem,
From it I
plucked the living gem.
If other
treasures some admire,
My
beetle’s greater than the fire.
That
flickers from an emerald ring,
Because
he is a living thing.