There's 'Scotty' Bill, four score of years,
Who, every morning when we rise,
Will swear that summer's not yet come,
And questions us - 'Where are the flies?'

His age, methought, unsettled him,
Yet still I felt some strange surprise
When, every day, he damned and raved
That Summer had not brought more flies.

I asked a lodger - 'Tell me why
Bill swears, and where his trouble lies.'
'Old Bill makes sticky papers, and
He makes his living catching flies.'

Now what though Summer brings sweet flowers,
They'll not make glad his aged eyes.
Tell him not then that Summer's come,
If she hath come without her flies.

And Bill, he knows a thing or two,
For here he strikes the cursed cause
That robbed sweet Summer of her flies -
Tis those damn sanitation laws.'

With better food, and half a home,
I'd back Bill for a hundred years:
Death failed to blow his light out thrice,
Expecting help from hopeless tears.