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

Robert the good, by a' the Swains rever'd,
Wise are his Words, like Siller is his Beard:
Near saxty shining Simmers he has seen,
Tenting his Hirsle on the Moor-land Green:
Unshaken yet with mony a Winter's Wind,
Stout are his Limbs, and youthfu' is his Mind.
But now he droops, ane wad be wae to see
Him sae cast down; ye wadna trow 'tis he.
By break of Day he seeks the dowy Glen,
That he may Scowth to a' his Mourning len:
Nane but the clinty Craigs and scrogy Briers
Were Witnesses of a' his Granes and Tears;
Howder'd wi' Hills a Crystal Burnie ran,
Where twa young Shepherds fand the good auld Man:
Kind Richy Spec, a Friend to a' distrest,
And Sandy wha of Shepherds sings the best;
With friendly Looks they speer'd wherefore he mourn'd,
He rais'd his Head, and sighing thus return'd.

ROBERT.

O Matt! poor Matt!—My Lads, e'en take a Skair
Of a' my Grief;—Sweet singing Matt's nae mair.
Ah Heavens! did e'er this lyart Head of mine
Think to have seen the cauldrife Mools on thine!

RICHY.
My Heart misga'e me, when I came this Way,
His Dog its lane sat yowling on a Brae;
I cry'd, Isk-isk,—poor Ringwood,—sairy Man;
He wag'd his Tail, cour'd near, and lick'd my Hand:
I clap'd his Head, which eas'd a wee his Pain;
But soon's I gade away, he youl'd again.
Poor kindly Beast. Ah Sirs! how sic should be
Mair tender-hearted mony a time than we!

SANDY.
Last Ouk I dream'd my Tupe that bears the Bell,
And paths the Snaw, out o'er a high Craig fell,
And brak his Leg.—I started frae my Bed,
Awak'd, and leugh.—Ah! now my Dream it's red.
How dreigh's our Cares, our Joys how soon away,
Like Sun-blinks on a cloudy Winter's Day!
Flow fast, ye Tears, ye have free Leave for me;
Dear sweet-tongu'd Matt, Thousands shall greet for thee.

ROBERT.
Thanks to my Friends, for ilka briny Tear
Ye shed for him; he to us a' was dear:
Sandy, I'm eas'd to see thee look sae wan;
Ricky, thy Sighs bespeak the kindly Man.

RICHY.
But twice the Simmer's Sun has thaw'd the Snaw,
Since frae our Heights Eddie was tane awa':
Fast Matt has follow'd.—Of sic twa bereft,
To smooth our Sauls, alake! wha have we left!
Waes me! o'er short a Tack of six is given,
But wha may contradict the Will of Heaven?
Yet mony a Year he liv'd to hear the Dale
Sing o'er his Sangs, and tell his merry Tale.
Last Year I had a stately tall Ash-tree,
Braid were its Branches, a sweet Shade to me;
I thought it might have flowrish'd on the Brae,
(Tho' past its Prime) yet twenty Years or sae:
But ae rough Night the blat'ring Winds blew snell,
Torn frae its Roots, adown it souchan fell;
Twin'd of its Nourishment, it lifeless lay,
Mixing its wither'd Leaves amang the Clay.
Sae flowrish'd Matt: But where's the Tongue can tell
How fair he grew? how much lamented fell?

SANDY.
How snackly cou'd he gi'e a Fool Reproof,
E'en wi' a canty Tale he'd tell aff loof?
How did he Warning to the Dosen'd sing,
By auld Purganty, and the Dutchman's Ring?
And Lucky's Siller Ladle shaws how aft
Our greatest Wishes are but vain and daft.
The wad-be Wits, he bade them a' but pap
Their crazy Heads into Tam Tinman's Shap;
There they wad see a Squirrel wi' his Bells
Ay wrestling up, yet rising like themsells.
Thousands of Things he wittily cou'd say,
With Fancy strang, and Saul as clear as Day;
Smart were his Tales: But where's the Tongue can tell
How blyth he was? how much lamented fell?

RICHY.
And as he blythsome was, sae was he wise,
Our Laird himsell wa'd aft take his Advice.
E'en Cheek for Chew he'd seat him 'mang them a',
And tak his Mind 'bout kittle Points of Law.
When Clan Red-yards, ye ken, wi' wicked Feud,
Had skaild of ours, but mair of his ain Blood;
When I, and mony mae that were right crouse,
Wad fain about his Lugs have burnt his House:
Yet Lady ANNE, a Woman meek and kind,
A Fae to Wiers, and of a peacefu' Mind;
Since mony in the Fray had got their dead,
To make the Peace, our Friend was sent wi' Speed.
The very Faes had for him just Regard,
Tho' sair he jyb'd their foremost singing Bard.
Careful was Matt: But where's the Tongue can tell
How wise he was? how much lamented fell?

SANDY.
Wha cou'd, like him, in a short Sang define
The bonny Lass, and her young Lover's Pine.
I'll ne'er forget that ane he made on May,
Wha brang the poor blate Symie to his Clay;
To gratifie the paughty Wench's Pride,
The silly Shepherd bow'd, obey'd and dy'd.
Sic constant Lasses as the Nit Brown Maid,
Shall never want just Praises duly paid;
Sic claim'd his Sang, and still it was his Care
With pleasing Words to guide and ruse the Fair.
How sweet his Voice, when Beauty was in View,
Smooth ran his Lines, ay grac'd wi' something new;
Nae Word stood wrang: But where's the Tongue can tell
How saft he sung? how much lamented fell?

RICHY.
And when he had a mind to be mair grave,
A Minister nae better cou'd behave;
Far out of Sight of sic he aften flew,
When he of haly Wonders took a View.
Well cou'd he praise the Power that made us a',
And bids us in Return but tent his Law;
Wha guides us when we're waking or asleep,
With thousand times mair Care than we our Sheep.
While he of Pleasure, Power and Wisdom sang,
My Heart lap high, my Lugs wi' Pleasure rang:
These to repeat, braid-spoken I wad spill,
Altho' I should employ my utmost Skill.
He towr'd aboon: But ah! what Tongue can tell
How high he flew? how much lamented fell?

ROBERT.

My Bennison, dear Lads, light on ye baith,
Wha ha'e sae true a Feeling of our Skaith:
O Sandy, draw his Likeness in smooth Verse,
As well ye can;—then Shepherds shall rehearse
His Merit, while the Sun mets out the Day,
While Ews shall bleet, and little Lambkins mae.

I've been a Fauter, now three Days are past,
While I for Grief have hardly broke my fast:
Come to my Shiel, there let's forget our Care,
I dinna want a Rowth of Country-fare,
Sic as it is, ye're welcome to a Skair.
Besides, my Lads, I have a Browst of Tip,
As good as ever wuish a Shepherd's Lip;
We'll tak a Scour o't to put aff our Pain,
For a' our Tears and Sighs are but in vain:
Come, help me up;—yon sooty Cloud shores Rain.

Secretary Addison, whose Obsequies are sung in a Scots Pastoral Vol. I. p. 106.

Lewis XIV. King of France.

Boileau, whose Ode on the taking Namure by the French 1692 he burlesqu'd, on its being retaken by the British 1695.

Robert late Earl of Oxford.