The works of Allan Ramsay edited by Burns Martin ... and John W. Oliver [... and Alexander M. Kinghorn ... and Alexander Law] |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The works of Allan Ramsay |  |
1
TO THE CRITICK
Stand, Critick, and before ye read,
Say, are ye free of Party-fead,
Or of a Saul sae scrimp and rude,
To envy every thing that's Good?
And if I shou'd (perhaps by Chance)
Something that's new and smart advance,
Resolve ye not with scornful Snuff,
To say 'tis a' confounded Stuff;
If that's the Case, Sir, spare your Spite,
For, faith, 'tis not for you I write:
Gae gie your Censure higher Scope,
And Congreve criticise or Pope,
Young's Satires, or Swift's merry Smile,
These, these are Writers worth your While.
On me your Talents wad be lost,
And tho' you gain a simple Boast;
I want a Reader wha deals fair,
And not ae real Fault will spare;
Yet with good Humour will allow
Me Praise, when e'er 'tis justly due:
Blest be sic Readers,—but the rest
That are with Spleen and Spite opprest;
May Bards arise to gar them dwine,
To Death with Lays the maist divine,
For sma's the Skaith they'll get by mine.
Say, are ye free of Party-fead,
Or of a Saul sae scrimp and rude,
To envy every thing that's Good?
And if I shou'd (perhaps by Chance)
Something that's new and smart advance,
Resolve ye not with scornful Snuff,
To say 'tis a' confounded Stuff;
If that's the Case, Sir, spare your Spite,
For, faith, 'tis not for you I write:
Gae gie your Censure higher Scope,
And Congreve criticise or Pope,
Young's Satires, or Swift's merry Smile,
These, these are Writers worth your While.
On me your Talents wad be lost,
And tho' you gain a simple Boast;
I want a Reader wha deals fair,
And not ae real Fault will spare;
Yet with good Humour will allow
Me Praise, when e'er 'tis justly due:
Blest be sic Readers,—but the rest
That are with Spleen and Spite opprest;
May Bards arise to gar them dwine,
To Death with Lays the maist divine,
For sma's the Skaith they'll get by mine.
2
How many, and of various Natures,
Are on this Globe the Crowd of Creatures;
In Mexiconian Forests fly,
Thousands that never wing'd our Sky:
'Mangst them there's ane of Feathers fair,
That in the Musick bears nae Skair,
Only an imitating Ranter,
For whilk he bears the Name of Taunter;
Soon as the Sun springs frae the East,
Upon the Branch he cocks his Crest,
Attentive, when frae Bough and Spray
The tunefu' Throats salute the Day:
The Brainless Beau attacks them a',
No ane escapes him great or sma';
Frae some he takes the Tone and Manner,
Frae this a Bass, frae that a Tenor,
Turns Love's saft Plaint to a dull Bustle,
And sprightly airs to a vile Whistle;
Still labouring thus to counterfeit,
He shaws the Poorness of his Wit.
Anes, when with Echoe loud the Taunter
Tret with Contempt ilk native Chanter,
Ane of them says, We own 'tis true,
Few Praises to our Sangs are due,
But pray, Sir, let's have ane frae you.
Are on this Globe the Crowd of Creatures;
In Mexiconian Forests fly,
Thousands that never wing'd our Sky:
'Mangst them there's ane of Feathers fair,
That in the Musick bears nae Skair,
Only an imitating Ranter,
For whilk he bears the Name of Taunter;
Soon as the Sun springs frae the East,
Upon the Branch he cocks his Crest,
Attentive, when frae Bough and Spray
The tunefu' Throats salute the Day:
The Brainless Beau attacks them a',
No ane escapes him great or sma';
Frae some he takes the Tone and Manner,
Frae this a Bass, frae that a Tenor,
Turns Love's saft Plaint to a dull Bustle,
And sprightly airs to a vile Whistle;
Still labouring thus to counterfeit,
He shaws the Poorness of his Wit.
Anes, when with Echoe loud the Taunter
Tret with Contempt ilk native Chanter,
Ane of them says, We own 'tis true,
Few Praises to our Sangs are due,
But pray, Sir, let's have ane frae you.
| The works of Allan Ramsay | |