From Fables and Tales [1722]
Bag-pipes no Musick:
A SATYRE on Scots Poetry. An Epistle to Mr. STANHOPE.
As Dryden justly term'd Poetick Sound,
A pacing Pegasus on Carpet G[r]ound,
Roscommon's nervous Sense your Verses yield
A Courser bounding o'er the furrow'd Field:
The Track pursue,—that thinking Scots may see
The comprehensive English Energy.
Scotch Moggy may go down at Aberdeen,
Where Bonnets, Bag-pipers, and Plaids are seen;
But such poor Gear no Harmony can sute,
Much fitter for a Jew's Trump than a Lute.
Low Bells, not Lyres, the Highland Cliffs adorn,
Macklean's loud halloo, or Mackgregor's Horn.
Sooner shall China yield to Earthen Ware,
Sooner shall Abel teach a singing Bear,
Than English Bards let Scots torment the'r Ear.
Who think their rustick Jargon to explain,
For anes is once, lang, long, and two is twain,
Let them to Edinburgh foot it back,
And add their Poetry to fill their Pack,
While you the Fav'rite of the tuneful Nine,
Make English Deeds in English Numbers shine.
Leave Ramsay's Clan to follow their own Ways,
And while they mumble Thistles, wear the Bays.
John Couper. Oxford, Novemb. 4. 1720
Grubstreet nae Satyre.
In Answer to Bagpipes no Musick. An Epistle
to the Umquhile John Cowper, late Kirk-Treasurer's
Man of Edinburgh; now his Ghaist studying Poetry
at Oxford, for the Benefit of E. Curl.
DEAR John, what ails ye now? ly still:
Hout Man! What need ye take it ill
That Allan buried ye in Rhime,
May be a Start afore ye'r Time?
He's nathing but a shire daft Lick,
And disna care a Fidle-stick,
Altho your Tutor Curl and ye
Shou'd serve him sae in Elegy.
DOUP down doild Ghaist, and dinna fash us
With Carpet Ground, and nervous Clashes;
Your Grubstreet Jargon Dryden wounds,
When mixt with his Poetick Sounds.
You pace on Pegasus! Take Care,
He'll bound o'er furrow'd Fields of Air,
And fling ye headlong frae the Skies,
Never a second Time to rise:
With sic a Fa, alake! ye'll e'en a'
Dash into Sherds like broken China.
China and Men the same Fate skair,
Ah me! baith bruckle Earthen Ware.
LANG serv'd ye in a mettl'd Station,
The foremost Beegle of our Nation,
For scenting out the yeilding Creature,
Wha us'd to play at Whats-the-matter:
But now, O fy for Shame to trudge,
Mun Curle's poor Hackney scribling Drudge,
To fill his Pack, while you, right fair,
Gain Title braw! His singing Bear.
But, John, Wha taught ye ilka Name,
That shines sae bonnily in Fame,
Rosecommon, Stanhope, Ramsay, Dryden,
Wha Back of winged Horse cou'd ride on?
A' them we ken; but wha the D---
Bad you up Hill Parnassus speel.
YOU Ramsay make a feckfu' Man,
Ringleader of a hearty Clan:
Goodfaith it sets ye well to fear him,
For gin ye etle anes to steer him,
He'll gloom ye dead;—in Rustick Phrase
He'll gar his Thistles rive your Bays.
PATE BIRNIE. Kinghorn, 16th November, 1720.
