Tall as a guardsman, pale as the east at dawn, <br />Who strides in strange apparel on the lawn? <br />Rails for his breakfast? routs his vassals out <br />(Like boys escaped from school) with song and shout? <br />Kind and unkind, his Maker's final freak, <br />Part we deride the child, part dread the antique! <br />See where his gang, like frogs, among the dew <br />Crouch at their duty, an unquiet crew; <br />Adjust their staring kilts; and their swift eyes <br />Turn still to him who sits to supervise. <br />He in the midst, perched on a fallen tree, <br />Eyes them at labour; and, guitar on knee, <br />Now ministers alarm, now scatters joy, <br />Now twangs a halting chord, now tweaks a boy. <br />Thorough in all, my resolute vizier <br />Plays both the despot and the volunteer, <br />Exacts with fines obedience to my laws, <br />And for his music, too, exacts applause.<br /><br />Robert Louis Stevenson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/frag2/
