The works of Allan Ramsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

Be't mine the Honour, once again to hear,
And see the best of Men for me appear,
I'll proudly chant: Be dumb, ye vulgar Throng,
Stair bids me sing, to him these Lays belong;
If he approves, who can condemn my Song?

Of Health I sing; O Health my Portion be,
And to old Age I'll sing if bless'd by thee.
Blessing Divine! Heaven's fairest Gift to Man!
Soul of His Joys! and Lengthner of his Span!
His Span of Life preserv'd with panting Breath,
Without thy Presence proves a ling'ring Death.

The Victor Kings may cause wide Nations bow,
And Half a Globe with conqu'ring Force subdue;
Bind Princes to their Axletrees, and make
The wond'ring Mob of staring Mortals quake:
Erect triumphal Arches, and obtain
The loud Huzza from Thousands in their Train:
But if her Sweetness balmy Health denies,
Without Delight Pillars or Eneids rise.

Cosmellius may on Silky Twilts repose,
And have a num'rous Change of finest Cloaths;
Box'd in his Chair, he may be born to dine
On Ortelons, and sip Tokay Wine.
His Liver, if an Inflammation seize,
Or wasting Lungs shall make him cough and wheeze;
No more he smiles, nor can his richest Toys,
Or Looking-glass, restore his wonted Joys:
The rich Brocade becomes a toilsome Weight,
The brilliant Gem offends his weakly Sight;
Perfumes grow nauseous then, nor can he bear
Loud tuneful Notes, that us'd to charm his Ear.
To please his Taste the Cook attempts in vain,
When now each former Pleasure gives him Pain.

Nor flowing Bowls, loud Laugh or Midnight Freik,
Nor smutty Tale, delight the roving Rake;
When Health forsakes him, all Diversions tire;
There's nothing pleases, nothing can inspire
A blythsome Smile; he shuns the Shine of Light,
And broken Slumbers make a weary Night.
If silent Sleep attempts to bring him Ease,
His watching Fancy feels the whole Disease:
He dreams a Mountain lies upon his Breast,
Or that he flies the Fury of some Beast;
Sees, at vast Distance, gushing from the Rocks,
The cooling Stream,—while burning Thirst provokes
Him, fainting, to climb up the craggy Edge,
And drag his Limbs through many a thorny Hedge;
Hangs o'er a Precipice, or sinks in Waves:
And all the while he sweats, turns, starts and raves.

How mad's that Man, push'd by his Passions wild,
Who's of his greatest Happiness beguil'd;
Who seems, whate'er he says, by Actions low,
To court Disease, our Pleasure's greatest Foe?

From Paris, deeply skill'd in nice Ragoos,
In Oleos, Salmongundies and Hogoes,
Montanus sends for Cooks, that his large Board
May all invented Luxury afford:
Health's never minded, while the Appetite
Devours the spicy Death with much Delight.
Mean time King Arthur's sav'ry knightd Loyn
Appears a Clown, and's not allow'd to join
The marinated Smelt, and Sturgeon Joles,
Soup Vermecell, souc'd Turbet, Cray and Soals,
Fowls a la daube, and Omelet of Eggs,
The smother'd Coney, and bak'd Padocks Legs,
Pullets a Bisk, and Orangedo Pye,
The larded Peacock, and the Tarts de Moy,
The Collard Veal, and Pike in Cassorole,
Pigs a la Braise, the Tansy and Brusole;
With many a hundred costly mingled Dish,
Wherein the Moiety of Flesh or Fish
Is wholly lost, and vitiate as the Taste
Of them who eat the dangerous Repast;
Until the feeble Stomach's over-cram'd,
The Fibres weaken'd, and the Blood enflam'd.
What aking Heads, what Spleen, and drowzy Eyes,
From undigested Crudities arise?
But when Montano's Paunch is over cloy'd,
The Bagnio, or Emetic Wine's employ'd.
These he imagines Methods the most sure,
After a Surfeit, to complete a Cure:
But never dreams how much the Balm of Life
Is wasted by this forc'd unnat'ral Strife.
Thus Peuther Vessel must by scouring wear,
While Plate more free from Dross continues clear.
Long unconsum'd the Oak can bear the Beams,
Or lie for Ages firm beneath the Streams:
But when alternately the Rain and Rays,
Now dash, then dry the Plank, it soon decays.
Luxurious Man! altho' thou'rt blest with Wealth,
Why shouldst thou use it to destroy thy Health?

Copy Mellantius, if you'd learn the Art,
To feast your Friends, and keep the Souls alart,
One good substantial British Dish or two,
Which sweetly in their natural Juices flow,
Only appear. And here no Danger's found,
To tempt the Appetite beyond its Bound:
And you may eat, or not, as you incline;
And, as you please, drink Water, Beer or Wine.
Here Hunger's safe, and gratefully appeas'd,
The Spleen's forbid, and all the Spirits rais'd,
And Guests arise regal'd, refresh'd and pleas'd.

Grumaldo views, from rais'd Parters around,
A thousand Acres of fat furrow'd Ground,
And all his own;—but these no Pleasure yield,
While Spleen hangs as a Fog o'er every Field:
The lovely Landskip clad with gilded Corn,
The Banks and Meads which Flowers and Groves adorn,
No Relish have; his envious sullen Mind,
Still on the Fret, complains his Fate's unkind:
Something he wants which always flies his Reach,
Which makes him groan beneath his spreading Beach.
When all of Nature, silent, seem to shun
Their Cares, and nod till the returning Sun;
His envious Thoughts forbid refreshing Sleep,
And on the Rack his hopeless Wishes keep:
Fatigu'd and drumbly from the Down he flies,
With skinny Cheek, pale Lips and blood-run Eyes.
Thus toil'd with lab'ring Thoughts he looks agast,
And tasteless loaths the nourishing Repast.
Meager Disease an easy Passage finds,
Where Joy's debarr'd, in such corroded Minds.
Such take no care the Springs of Life to save,
Neglect their Health, and quickly fill a Grave.

Unlike gay Myrtle, who with chearful Air,
Less envious, tho' less rich, no Slave to Care,
Thinks what he has enough, and scorns to fret,
While he sees Thousands less oblig'd to Fate,
And oftner from his Station casts his Eye
On those below him, than on them more high:
Thus Envy finds no Access to his Breast,
To sowr his gen'rous Joys, or break his Rest.
He studies to do Actions just and kind,
Which with the best Reflections chear the Mind:
Which is the first Preservative of Health,
To be preferr'd to Grandeur, Pride and Wealth.
Let all who would pretend to common Sense,
'Gainst Pride and Envy still be on Defence.
Who love their Health, nor would their Joys controul,
Let them ne'er nurse such Furies in their Soul.

Nor wait on strolling Phimos to the Stews,
Phimos who by his livid Colour shews
Him load with vile Diseases, which are fixt
Upon his Bones, and with his Vitals mixt.
Does that Man wear the Image of his God,
Who drives to Death on such an ugly Road?
Behold him clad, like any bright Bridegroom,
In richest Labours of the British Loom;
Embroider'd o'er with Gold, whilst Lace or Lawn
Waves down his Breast, and Rufles o'er his Hand,
Set off with Art, which vilely he employs
In Sinks of Death, for low dear purchas'd Joys:
He grasps the blasted Shadow of the Fair,
Whose sickly Look, vile Breath, and falling Hair,
The flag'd Embrace, and mercenary Squeeze,
The twangs of Guilt, and terrors of Disease,
Might warn him to beware, if wild Desire
Had not set all his thoughtless Soul in Fire.
O poor mistaken Youth! to drain thy Purse,
To gain the most malignant humane Curse!

Think on thy Flannel, and Mercurial Dose,
And future Pains, to save thy Nerve and Nose.
Think, heedless Wight, how thy infected Veins
May plague thee many a Day with loathsome Pains,
When the French Foe his woeful Way has made,
And all within has dire Detachments laid;
There long may lurk, and, with Destruction keen,
Do horrid Havock e'er the Symptom's seen.
But learn to dread the poisonous Disease,
When Heaviness and Spleen thy Spirits seise;
When feeble Limbs to serve thee will decline,
And languid Eyes no more with Sparkles shine;
The Roses from thy Cheek will blasted fade,
And leave a dull Complexion like the Lead:
Then, then expect the terrible Attack
Upon thy Head, thy Conduit, Nose and Back;
Pains through thy Shoulders, Arms, and Throat and Shins,
Will threaten Death, and damp thee with thy Sins.
How frightful is the Loss, and the Disgrace,
When it destroys the Beauties of the Face!
When the arch'd Nose in rotten Ruin lyes,
And all the Venom flames around the Eyes;
When th'Uvula has got it's mortal Wound,
And Tongue and Lips form Words without a Sound;
When Hair drops off, and Bones corrupt and bare,
Through ulcerated Tags of Muscles stare.

But vain we sing Instruction to his Ear,
Who's no more Slave to Reason than to Fear;
Hurried by Passion, and o'ercome with Wine,
He rushes headlong on his vile Design:
The nauseous Bolus, and the bitter Pill,
A Month of spitting, and the Surgeon's Bill,
Are now forgot, whilst he:—But here 'tis best
To let the Curtain drop, and hide the rest
Of the coarse Scene, too shocking for the Sight
Of modest Eyes and Ears, that take Delight

To hear with Pleasure Urban's Praises sung,
Urban the kind, the prudent, gay and young,
Who moves a Man, and wears a rosie Smile,
That can the fairest of a Heart beguile:
A virtuous Love delights him with it's Grace,
Which soon he'll find in Myra's lov'd Embrace,
Enjoying Health, with all it's lovely Train
Of Joys, free from Remorse, or Shame or Pain.

But Talpo sighs with matrimonial Cares,
His Cheeks wear Wrinkles, Silver grow his Hairs;
Before old Age, his Health decays apace,
And very rarely Smiles clear up his Face.
Talpo's a Fool, there's hardly Help for that,
He scarcely knows himself what he'd be at:
He's avaritious to the last Degree,
And thinks his Wife and Children makes too free
With his dear Idol; this creates his Pain,
And breeds Convulsions in his narrow Brain.
He always startled at approaching Fate,
And often jealous of his vertuous Mate;
Is ever anxious, shuns his Friends, to save:
Thus soon he'll fret himself into a Grave;
There let him rot,—worthless the Muse's Lays,
Who never read one Poem in his Days.

I sing to Marlus, Marlus who regards
The well mean'd Verse, and generously rewards
The Poet's Care; observe now, if you can,
Ought in his Carriage, does not speak the Man:
To him his many a Winter wedded Wife
Appears the greatest Solace of his Life.
He views his Offspring with indulgent Love,
Who his superior Conduct all approve.
Smooth glide his Hours, at Fifty he's less old,
Than some who have not half the Number told.
The chearing Glass he with right Friends can share,
But shuns the deep Debauch with cautious Care.

His Sleeps are sound, he sees the Morning rise,
And lifts his Face with Pleasure to the Skies;
And quaffs the Health that's born on Zephyr's Wings,
Or gushes from the Rock in Limpid Springs.
From fragrant Plains he gains the chearing Smell,
While ruddy Beams all distant Dumps repell.
The whole of Nature, to a Mind thus turn'd,
Enjoying Health, with Sweetness seems adorn'd.
To him the whistling Ploughman's artless Tune,
The bleeting Flocks, the Oxens hollow Crune,
The warbling Notes of the small chirping Throng,
Delight him more than the Italian Song.
To him the cheapest Dish of rural Fare,
And Water cool in place of Wine more rare,
Shall prove a Feast. On Straw he'll find more Ease
Than on the Down, even with the least Disease.

Whoever's tempted to transgress the Line,
By Moderation fix'd to enlivening Wine;
View Macro wasted long before his Time,
Whose Head, bow'd down, proclaims his liquid Crime.
The Purple Dye, with Ruby Pimples mixt,
As Witnesses upon his Face are fixt.
A constant Fever wastes his Strength away,
And Limbs enervate gradually decay.
The Gout and Palsy follow in the Rear,
And make his Being burthensome to bear.
His squeamish Stomach loaths the savory Sey,
And nought but Liquids now can find their Way
To animate his Strength, which daily flies,
Till the young Drunkard's past all Hope, and dies.

To practise what we preach, O Goddess-born!
Assist thy Slave, lest Bacchanalians scorn
Thy Inspiration, if the tempting Grape
Shall form the hollow Eye, and Idiot Gape.

But let no wretched Misers, who repine,
And wish there were not such a Juice as Wine,
Imagine here that we are so profane
To think that Heaven gave plenteous Vines in vain.
No; since there's Plenty, Cups may sparkling flow,
And we may drink till our rais'd Spirits glow.
They will befriend our Health, while chearful Rounds
Incline to Mirth, and keep their proper Bounds.
Fools should not drink, I own, who still wish more,
And know not when 'tis proper to give o'er.
Dear Britons, let no Morning Drinks deceive
Your Appetites, which else at Noon would crave
Such proper Aliments, as can support
At Even your hearty Bottle, Health and Sport.

Next view we Sloth (too oft the Child of Wealth)
A seeming Friend, but real Foe to Health.
Lethargus loll's his lazy Hours away,
His Eyes are drowsy, and his Lips are blae;
His soft enfeebl'd Hands supinely hing,
And shaking Knees unus'd, together cling:
Close by the Fire his Easy-Chair stands,
In which all Day he snotters, nods and yawns.
Sometimes he'll drone at Piquet, hoping Gain,
But you must deal his Cards, that's too much Pain.
He speaks but seldom, puffs at every Pause,
Words being a Labour to his Tongue and Jaws.
Nor must his Friends discourse above their Breath,
For the least Noise stounds through his Ears like Death.
He causes stop each Cranny in his Room,
And heaps on Cloaths, to save him from the Rheum:
Free Air he dreads as his most dangerous Foe,
And trembles at the Sight of Ice or Snow.
The Warming-Pan each Night glows o'er his Sheets,
Then he beneath a Load of Blankets sweats;
The which (instead of shutting) opes the Door,
And lets in Cold at each dilated Pore.

Thus does the Sluggard Health and Vigour waste,
With heavy Indolence; till at the last,
Sciatick, Jaundice, Dropsie, or the Stone,
Alternate makes the lazy Lubard grone.

But active Hilaris much rather loves,
With eager Stride to trace the Wilds and Groves;
To start the Covy, or the bounding Roe,
Or work destructive Reynard's Overthrow:
The Race delights him, Horses are his Care,
And a stout ambling Pad his easiest Chair.
Sometimes to firm his Nerves he'll plunge the Deep,
And with expanded Arms the Billows sweep:
Then on the Links, or in the Estler Walls,
He drives the Gowff, or strikes the Tennis Balls.
From Ice with Pleasure he can brush the Snow,
And run rejoycing with his Curling Throw;
Or send the whizzing Arrow from the String,
A manly Game, which by it self I sing.
Thus chearfully he'll walk, ride, dance or game,
Nor mind the Northern Blast, or Southern Flame.
East Winds may blow, and sullen Fogs may fall,
But his hale Constitution's Proof to all.
He knows no Change of Weather by a Corn,
Nor minds the black, the blew or ruddy Morn.

Here let no Youth extravagantly given,
Who values neither Gold, nor Health, nor Heaven,
Think that our Song encourages the Crime
Of setting deep, or wasting too much Time
On furious Game; which makes the Passions boil,
And the fair Mean of Health a weakning Toil,
By Violence excessive, or the Pain
Which ruin'd Losers ever must sustain.

Our Hilaris despises Wealth so won;
Nor does he love to be himself undone,
But from his Sport, can with a Smile retire,
And warm his Genius at Apollo's Fire;
Find useful Learning in the inspired Strains,
And bless the generous Poet for his Pains.
Thus he by Lit'rature and Exercise,
Improves his Soul, and wards off each Disease.

Health's op'ner Foes, we've taken Care to show,
Which make Diseases in full Torrents flow:
But when these Ills intrude, do what we will,
Then hope for Health from Clark's approven Skill;
To such well seen in Nature's darker Laws,
That for Disorders can assign a Cause:
Who know the Virtues of salubrious Plants,
And what each different Constitution wants,
Apply for Health.—But shun the vagrant Quack,
Who gulls the Crowd with Andrew's comick Clack;
Or him that charges Gazettes with his Bills,
His Anadoyns, Elixirs, Tinctures, Pills,
Who rarely ever cures, but often kills.
Nor trust thy Life to the old Woman's Charms,
Who binds with knotted Tape thy Legs or Arms,
Which they pretend will purple Fevers cool;
And thus impose on some believing Fool.
When Agues shake, or Fevers raise a Flame,
Let your Physician be a Man of Fame;
Of well known Learning, and in good Respect,
For Prudence, Honour, and a Mind erect:
Nor scrimply save from what's to Merit duè;
He saves your whole Estate who succours you.

Be grateful, Britons, for your temp'rate Beams,
Your fertile Plains, green Hills, and silver Streams,
O'erclad with Corns, with Groves, and many a Mead;
Where rise green Heights, where Herds in Millions feed:
Here useful Plenty mitigates our Care,
And Health with freshest Sweets embalms the Air.

Upon those Shores, where Months of circling Rays
Glance feebly on the Snow, and frozen Bays;
Where, wrapt in Fur, the starving Lapland Brood
Scarce keep the Cold from curdling of their Blood:
Here meager Want, in all its pinching Forms,
Combines with lengthned Night and bleakest Storms,
To combate joyful Health and calm Repose,
Which from an equal Warmth and Plenty flows.

Yet rather, O great Ruler of the Day,
Bear me to Weygate, or to Hudson's Bay,
Than scorch me on these dry and blasted Plains,
Where Rays direct inflame the boiling Veins
Of gloomy Negroes, who're oblig'd to breathe
A thickned Air, with pestilential Death,
Where range out o'er th'unhospitable Wastes,
The Hunger edg'd, and fierce devouring Beasts;
Where Serpents crawl, which sure Destruction bring,
Or in the envenom'd Tooth or forked Sting;
Where fleeting Sands ne'er yield to industrious Toil
The golden Sheave, or Plants for Wine and Oil:
Health must be here a Stranger, where the Rage
Of fev'rish Beams forbid a lengthen'd Age.

Ye Dutch, enjoy your Dams, your Bulwarks boast,
And war with Neptune for a sandy Coast,
Whilst frighted by these deep tumultuous Powers,
You scarce dare sleep in your subaqueous Bowers:
Raise high your Beds, and shun your croaking Frogs,
And battle with Tobacco Smoak your Fogs;
Soak on your Stoves, with Spirits charge your Veins,
To ward off Agues and Rheumatick Pains.

Let the proud Spaniard strut on naked Hills,
And vainly trace the Plain for Christal Rills,
Starve on a Sallet, or a Garlick Head,
Pray for his daily Roots, not daily Bread;
Be sowr, and jealous of his Friend and Wife,
Till Want and Spleen cut short his Threed of Life.

Whilst we on our auspicious Island find
What e'er can please the Sense, or chear the Mind.
Blest Queen of Isles! with a devout Regard,
Allow me to kneel down and kiss thy Sward,
Thy Flow'ry Sward, and offer Heaven a Vow,
Which Gratitude and Love to thee makes due:
If e'er I from thy Healthful Limits stray,
Or by a Wish, or Word, a Thought betray,
Against thy Int'rest, or thy fair Renown;
May never Daphne furnish me a Crown,
Nor may the first-rate Judges of our Isle,
Or read or on my blythsome Numbers smile.

Thalia here, sweet as the Light, retir'd,
Commanding me to sing what she'd inspir'd,
And never mind the glooming Criticks Bray;
The Song was her's,—she spoke,—and I obey.

A Poem on seeing the Archers playing at the Rovers.