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

Let them censure, what care I?
The Herd of Criticks I defy.
No, no, the Fair, the Gay, the Young
Govern the Numbers of my Song:
All that they approve is sweet,
And all is Sense that they repete.

Prior from Anacreon.

To the most Beautiful, THE SCOTS LADIES.

xxi

COMMENDATORY POEMS.

TO Mr. ALLAN RAMSAY ON HIS Poetical Works.

Hail Northern Bard! thou Fav'rite of the Nine,
Bright, or as Horace did, or Virgil shine.
In ev'ry Part of what thou'st done we find
How they, and great Apollo too, have joyn'd
To furnish thee with an uncommon Skill,
And with Poetick Fire thy Bosom fill.

Thy Morning Interview throughout is fraught
With tuneful Numbers and Majestick Thought:
And Celia, who her Lover's Suit disdain'd,
Is by all-powerful Gold at length obtain'd.

When Winter's hoary Aspect makes the Plains
Unpleasant to the Nymphs, and jovial Swains;
Sweetly thou do'st thy rural Couples call
To Pleasures known within Edina's Wall.

When, Allan, thou, for Reasons thou know'st best,
Doom'd busy Cowper to eternal Rest:
What Mortal could thine El'gy on him read,
And not have sworn he was defunct indeed?

xxii

Yet, that he might not lose accustom'd Dues,
You rous'd him from the Grave to open Pews;
Such Magick, worthy Allan, hath thy Muse.

Th' experienc'd Bawd, in aptest Strains thou'st made
Early instruct her Pupils in their Trade;
Lest when their Faces wrinkled are with Age,
They should not Cullies as when young engage.
But on our Sex why art thou so severe,
To wish for Pleasure we may pay so dear:
Suppose that thou had'st after cheerful Juice,
Met with a strolling Harlot wondrous spruce,
And been by her prevail'd with to resort
Where Claret might be drunk, or, if not, Port;
Suppose, I say, that this thou granted had,
And Freedom took with the enticing Jade;
Would'st thou not hope some Artist might be found
To cure, if ought you ail'd the smarting Wound?

When of the Caledonian Garb you sing,
(Which from Tartana's distant Clime you bring,)
With how much Force you recommend the Plaid,
To ev'ry jolly Swain, and lovely Maid.
But if, as Fame reports, some of those Wights,
Who canton'd are among the rugged Heights
No Breeks put on, should'st thou not them advise,
(Excuse me, Ramsay, if I am too nice)
To take, as fitting 'tis, some speedy Care
That what should hidden be appears not bare;
Lest Damsels, yet unknowing, should by Chance,
Their nimble Ogle t'wards the Object glance?
If this thou dost, we, who the South Possess,
May teach our Females how they ought to dress;
But chiefly let them understand, 'tis meet
They should their Legs hide more, if not their Feet,
Too much by Help of Whale-bone now display'd,
Ev'n from the Dutches to the Kitchen-maid;
But with more Reason, those who give Distaste,
When on their uncouth Limbs our Eyes we cast.

xxiii

Thy other Sonnets in each Stanza shew,
What, when of Love you think, thy Muse can do.
So movingly thou'st made the am'rous Swain,
Wish on the Moor his Lass to meet again,
That I, methinks, find an unusual Pain.
Nor hast thou, chearful Bard, exprest less Skill,
When the brisk Lass you sang of Peattie's-mill,
Or Sussie, whom the Lad with yellow Hair
Thou'st made in soft and pleasing Notes prefer
To Nymphs less handsome, constant, gay and fair.

In lovely Strains kind Nancy you address,
And make fond Willie his coy Jean possess:
Which done, thou'st blest the Lad in Nellie's Arms,
Who long had absent been 'midst dire Alarms.
And artfully you've plac'd within the Grove,
Jammie to hear his Mistress own her Love.

A gentle Care you've found for Strephon's Breast,
By scornful Betty long depriv'd of Rest.
And when the blisful Pairs you thus have crown'd,
You'd have the Glass go merrily arround
To shake off Care, and render Sleep more sound.

Who e'er shall see, or hath already seen,
Those bonny Lines call'd Christ's-kirk on the Green,
Must own that thou hast, to thy lasting Praise,
Deserv'd as well as Royal James the Bays.
'Mong other Things you've painted to the Life,
A Sot unactive lying by his Wife,
Which oft 'twixt wedded Folks makes wofull Strife.

When 'gainst the scribling Knaves your Pen you drew,
How didst thou lash the vile presumptuous Crew!
Not much fam'd Butler, who had gone before,
E'er ridicul'd his Knight, or Ralpho more;
So well thou's done it, equal Smart they feel,
As if thou'd pierc'd their Hearts with killing Steel.

xxiv

They thus subdu'd, you in pathetick Rhyme,
A Subject undertook that's more sublime,
By noble Thoughts, and Words discreetly join'd,
Thou'st taught me how I may Contentment find.
And when to Addie's Fame you touch'd the Lyre,
Thou sang'st like one of the Seraphick Choir.
So smoothly flow thy nat'ral rural Strains,
So sweetly too, you've made the mournful Swains
His Death lament, what mortal can forbear,
Shedding like us upon his Tomb a Tear.

Go on, fam'd Bard, thou Wonder of our Days,
And crown thy Head with never-fading Bays.
While grateful Britons do thy Lines revere,
And value, as they ought, their Virgil here.

J. Burchet.

xxv

TO THE AUTHOR.

As once I view'd a rural Scene,
With Summer's Sweets profusely wild;
Such Pleasure sooth'd my giddy Sense,
I ravish'd stood, while Nature smil'd.

Straight I resolv'd and chose a Field,
Where all the Spring I might transfer;
There stood the Trees in equal Rows,
Here Flora's Pride in one Parterre.

The Task was done, the Sweets were fled,
Each Plant had lost its sprightly Air,
As if they grudg'd to be confin'd,
Or to their Will not matched were.

The narrow Scene displeas'd my Mind,
Which daily still more homely grew:
At length I fled the loathed Sight,
And hy'd me to the Fields anew.

Here Nature wanton'd in her Prime;
My Fancy rang'd the boundless Waste.
Each different Sight pleas'd with Surprise,
I welcom'd back the Pleasures past.

xxvi

Thus some who feel Apollo's Rage,
Would teach their Muse her Dress and Time,
Till hamper'd so with Rules of Art,
They smother quite the vital Flame.

They daily chime the same dull Tone,
Their Muse no daring Sallies grace,
But stifly held with Bit and Curb,
Keeps heavy Trot, tho equal Pace.

But who takes Nature for his Rule,
Shall by her gen'rous Bounty shine;
His easy Muse revells at Will,
And strikes new Wonders every Line.

Keep then, my Friend, your native Guide,
Never distrust her plenteous Store,
Ne'er less propitious will she prove
Than now; but, if she can, still more.

C. T.

xxvii

TO Mr. ALLAN RAMSAY.

Too blindly partial to my native Tongue,
Fond of the Smoothness of our English Song;
At first thy Numbers did uncouth appear,
And shock'd th'affected Niceness of the Ear.
Thro' Prejudice's Eye each Page I see;
Tho all were Beauties, none were so to me.
Yet sham'd at last, whilst all thy Genius own,
To have that Genius hid from me alone;
Resolv'd to find, for Praise or Censure, cause,
Whether to join with all, or all oppose;
Careful I read thee o'er and o'er again:
At length the useful Search requites my Pain;
My false Distaste to instant Pleasure's turn'd,
As much I envy as before I scorn'd:
And thus the Error of my Pride to clear,
I sign my honest Recantation here.

C. Beckingham.

xxviii

TO Mr. ALLAN RAMSAY ON THE Publication of his Poems.

Dear Allan, who that hears your Strains,
Can grudge that you should wear the Bays,
When 'tis so long since Scotia's Plains
Could boast of such melodious Lays?

What tho the Criticks, snarling Curs!
Cry out, Your Pegasus wants Reins;
Bid them provide themselves of Spurs;
Such Riders need not fear their Brains.

A Muse that's healthy, fair and sound,
With noble Ardor fearless hastes
O'er Hill and Dale; but Carpet-Ground
Was ay for tender footed Beasts.

E'en let the fustian Coxcombs chuse
Their Carpet-Ground; but the green Field
Was held a Walk for Virgil's Muse,
And Virgil was an unco' Chield!

xxix

Your Muse, upon her native Stock
Subsisting, raises thence a Name;
While they are forc'd to pick the Lock
Of other Bards, and pilfer Fame.

Oft when I read your joyous Lines,
So full of pleasant Jests and Wit,
So blyth and gay the Humor shines,
It gives me many a merry Fit.

Then when I hear of Maggy's Charms,
And Roger tholing sair Disdain,
The bonny Lass my Bosom warms,
And mickle I bemoan the Swain.

For who can hear the Lad complain,
And not participate and feel
His artless undissembled Pain,
Unless he has a Heart of Steel.

But Patie's Wiles and cunning Arts
Appease th'imaginary Grief,
Declare him well a Clown of Parts,
And bring the wretched Wight Relief.

More might be said; but in a Friend
Encomiums seem but dull and flat,
The Wise approve, but Fools commend,
A Pope's Authority for that.

Else certes 'twere in me unmeet,
To grudge the Muse's utmost Force,
Or spare in such a Cause my Feet,
To clinch at least in Praise of yours.

Ja. Arbuckle.

THE Morning Interview.

Such killing Looks, so thick the Arrows fly,
That 'tis unsafe to be a Stander by:
Poets approaching to describe the Fight,
Are by their Wounds instructed how to write.
Waller, 130.

When silent Show'rs refresh the pregnant Soil,
And tender Sallats eat with Tuscan Oil,
Harmonious Musick gladens ev'ry Grove,
While bleating Lambkins from their Parents rove,
And o'er the Plain the anxious Mothers stray,
Calling their tender Care with hoarser Bae.
Now cheerful Zephyr from the Western Skies
With easy Flight o'er painted Meadows flies,
To kiss his Flora with a gentle Air,
Who yields to his Embrace, and looks more fair.

When from Debauch with sp'rituous Juice opprest,
The Sons of Bacchus stagger home to Rest,
With tatted Wigs, foul Shoes, and uncock'd Hats,
And all bedaub'd with Snuff their loose Cravats.
The Sun began to sip the morning Dew,
As Damon from his restless Pillow flew.

Him late from Celia's Cheek a Patch did wound,
A Patch high seated on the blushing Round.
His painful Thoughts all Night forbid him Rest,
And he employ'd that Night as one opprest;

Musing Revenge, and how to countermine
The strongest Force, and ev'ry deep Design
Of Patches, Fans, of Necklaces and Rings,
Ev'n Musick's Pow'r, when Celia plays or sings.

Fatigu'd with running Errands all the Day,
Happy in want of Thought his Valet lay,
Recruiting Strength with Sleep.—His Master calls,
He starts with lock'd up Eyes, and beats the Walls.
A second Thunder rouses up the Sot,
He yawns and murmurs Curses through his Throat:
Stockings awry, and Breeches-knees unlac'd,
And Buttons do mistake their Holes for Haste.
His Master raves,—cries, Roger, make Dispatch,
Time flies apace. He frown'd, and lookt his Watch:
Haste, do my Wig, ty't with the careless Knots,
And run to Civet's, let him fill my Box.
Go to my Laundress, see what makes her stay,
And call a Coach and Barber in your Way.

Thus Orders justle Orders in a Throng:
Roger with laden Mem'ry trots along.
His Errands done; with Brushes next he must
Renew his Toil amidst perfuming Dust;
The yielding Comb he leads with artful Care,
Through crook'd Meanders of the flaxen Hair:
E'er this perform'd he's almost chok'd to Death,
The Air is thicken'd, and he pants for Breath.
The Trav'ler thus in the Numidian Plains,
A Conflict with the driving Sands sustains.

Two Hours are past, and Damon is equipt,
Pensive he stalks, and meditates the Fight:
Arm'd Cap-a-pee, in Dress a killing Beau,
Thrice view'd his Glass, and thrice resolv'd to go,
Flusht full of Hope to overcome his Foe.
His early Pray'rs were all to Paphos sent,
That Jove's Sea-daughter would give her Consent:

Cry'd, Send thy little Son unto my Aid.
Then took his Hat, tript out, and no more said.

What lofty Thoughts do sometimes push a Man
Beyond the Verge of his own native Span!
Keep low thy Thoughts, frail Clay, nor boast thy Pow'r;
Fate will be Fate: And since there's nothing sure,
Vex not thy self too much, but catch th'auspicious Hour.

The tow'ring Lark had thrice his Mattins sung,
And thrice were Bells for pious Service rung.
In Plaids wrapt up, Prudes throng the sacred Dome,
And leave the spacious Petticoat at Home:
While softest Dreams seal'd up fair Celia's Eyes,
She dreams of Damon, and forgets to rise.
A sportive Sylph contrives the subtile Snare,
Sylphs know the charming Baits which catch the Fair;
She shews him handsome, brawny, rich and young,
With Snuff-box, Cane, and Sword-knot finely hung,
Well skill'd in Airs of Dangle, Toss and Rap,
Those Graces which the tender Hearts entrap.

Where Aulus oft makes Law for Justice pass,
And charles's Statue stands in lasting Brass,
Amidst a lofty Square which strikes the Sight,
With spacious Fabricks of stupendous Hight;
Whose sublime Roofs in Clouds advance so high,
They seem the Watch-tow'rs of the nether Sky;
Where once Alas! where once the Three Estates
Of Scotland's Parliament held free Debates:
Here Celia dwelt, and here did Damon move,
Press'd by his rigid Fate, and raging Love.

To her Apartment straight the daring Swain
Approach'd, and softly knock'd, nor knock'd in vain.
The Nymph new wak'd starts from the lazy Down,
And rolls her gentle Limbs in Morning-Gown:
But half-awake, she judges it must be
Frankalia come to take her Morning Tea;

Cries, Welcome, Cousin. But she soon began
To change her Visage, when she saw a Man:
Her unfixt Eyes with various Turnings range,
And pale Surprise to modest Red exchange:
Doubtful 'twixt Modesty and Love she stands,
Then ask'd the bold Impertinent's Demands.
Her Strokes are doubled, and the Youth now found
His Pains increase, and open ev'ry Wound.
Who can describe the Charms of loose Attire?
Who can resist the Flames with which they fire?
Ah, barbarous Maid! he cries, sure native Charms
Are too too much: Why then such Store of Arms?
Madam, I come, prompt by th'uneasy Pains,
Caus'd by a Wound from you, and want Revenge;
A borrow'd Pow'r was posted on a Charm:
A Patch, damn'd Patch! Can Patches work such Harm?

He said; then threw a Bomb, lay hid within
Love's Mortar-piece, the Dimple of his Chin:
It miss'd for once, she lifted up her Head,
And blush'd a Smile, that almost stuck him dead,
Then cunningly retir'd, but he pursu'd
Near to the Toilet, where the War renew'd.
Thus the great Fabius often gain'd the Day
O'er Hannibal, by frequent giving Way:
So warlike Bruce and Wallace sometimes deign'd
To seem defeat, yet certain Conquest gain'd.

Thus was he led in midst of Celia's Room,
Speechless he stood, and waited for his Doom:
Words were but vain, he scarce could use his Breath,
As round he view'd the Implements of Death.
Her dreadful Arms in careless Heaps were laid
In gay Disorder round her tumbled Bed:
He often to the soft Retreat would stare,
Still wishing he might give the Battel there.
Stunn'd with the Thought, his wand'ring Looks did stray
To where lac'd Shoes and her silk Stockings lay,
And Garters which are never seen by Day.

His dazl'd Eyes almost deserted Light;
No Man before had ever got the Sight,
A Lady's Garters, Earth! their very Name,
Tho yet unseen, sets all the Soul on Flame.
The Royal Ned knew well their mighty Charms,
Else he'd ne'er hoop'd one round the English Arms.
Let barb'rous Honours crown the Sword and Lance,
Thou next their King does British Knights advance,
O Garter! Honi soit qui mal y pense.

O who can all these hidden Turns relate,
That do attend on a rash Lover's Fate!
In deep Distress the Youth turn'd up his Eyes,
As if to ask Assistance from the Skies.
The Petticoat was hanging on a Pin,
Which the unlucky Swain star'd up within:
His curious Eyes too daringly did rove,
Around this oval conick Vault of Love:
Himself alone can tell the Pain he found,
While his wild Sight survey'd forbidden Ground.
He view'd the ten-fold Fence, and gave a Grone,
His trembling Limbs bespoke his Courage gone:
Stupid and pale he stood, like Statue dumb,
The amber Snuff dropt from his careless Thumb.
Be silent here, my Muse, and shun a Plea
May rise betwixt old Bickerstaff and me;
For none may touch a Petticoat but he.

Damon thus foil'd, breath'd with a dying Tone,
Assist ye Powers of Love, else I am gone.
The ardent Pray'r soon reach'd the Cyprian Grove,
Heard and accepted by the Queen of Love.
Fate was propitious too, her Son was by,
Who 'midst his dread Artillery did ly
Of Flanders Lace, and Straps of curious Dy.
On India Muslin Shades the God did loll,
His head reclin'd upon a tinsy Roll.

The Mother Goddess thus her Son bespoke,
“Thou must, my Boy, assume the Shape of Shock,
“And leap to Celia's Lap; whence thou may slip
“Thy Paw up to her Breast, and reach her Lip:
“Strike deep thy Charms, thy pow'rful Art display,
“To make young Damon Conqueror to Day.
“Thou need not blush to change thy Shape, since Jove
“Try'd most of brutal Forms to gain his Love;
“Who that he might his loud [lovéd?] Saturnia gull,
“For fair Europa's Sake inform'd a Bull.

She spoke—Not quicker does the Lamp of Day
Dart on the Mountain Tops a gilded Ray,
Swifter than Lightning flies before the Clap,
From Cyprus Isle he reach'd Celia's Lap:
Now fawns, now wags his Tail, and licks her Arm;
She hugs him to her Breast, nor dreads the Harm.
So in Ascanius Shape, the God unseen
Of old deceiv'd the Carthaginian Queen.

So now the subtile Pow'r his Time espies,
And threw two barbed Darts in Celia's Eyes:
Many were broke before he cou'd succeed;
But that of Gold flew whizzing through her Head:
These were his last Reserve.—When others fail,
Then the refulgent Metal must prevail.
Pleasure produc'd by Money now appears,
Coaches and Six run rattling in her Ears.
O Liv'ry Men! Attendants! Houshold-plate!
Court-posts and Visits! pompous Air and State!
How can your Splendor easy Access find,
And gently captivate the fair one's Mind?
Success attends, Cupid has plaid his Part,
And sunk the pow'rful Venom to her Heart.
She cou'd no more, she's catched in the Snare,
Sighing she fainted in her easy Chair.
No more the sanguine Streams in Blushes glow,
But to support the Heart all inward flow,
Leaving the Cheek as cold and white as Snow.

Thus Celia fell, or rather thus did rise:
Thus Damon made, or else was made a Prize;
For both were Conquerors, and both did yield,
First she, now he, is Master of the Field.

Now he resumes fresh Life, abandons Fear,
Jumps to his Limbs, and does more gay appear.
Not gaming Heir when his rich Parent dies,
Not Zealot reading Hackney's Party-lies,
Not soft Fifeteen on her Feet-washing Night,
Not Poet when his Muse sublimes her Flight,
Not an old Maid for some young Beauty's Fall,
Not the long tending Stibler at his Call,
Not Husband-man in Drought when Rain descends,
Not Miss when Limberham his Purse extends,
E'er knew such Raptures as this joyful Swain,
When yielding, dying Celia calm'd his Pain.
The rapid Joys now in such Torrents roul,
That scarce his Organs can retain his Soul.

Victor he's gen'rous, courts the Fair's Esteem,
And takes a Bason fill'd with limpid Stream,
Then from his Fingers form'd an artful Rain,
Which rouz'd the dormant Spirits of her Brain,
And made the purple Channels flow again.
She lives, he sings; she smiles, and looks more tame:
Now Peace and Friendship is the only Theme.

The Muse owns freely here she does not know
If Language pass'd between the Belle and Beau,
Or if in Courtship such use Words or no.
But sure it is there was a Parley beat,
And mutual Love finisht the proud Debate.
Then to complete the Peace and seal the Bliss,
He for a Diamond Ring receiv'd a Kiss

Of her soft Hand.—Next the aspiring Youth,
With eager Transports press'd her glowing Mouth.
So by Degrees the Eagles teach their Young
To mount on high and stare upon the Sun.

A sumptuous Entertainment crowns the War,
And all rich Requisites are brought from far.
The Table boasts its being from Japan,
Th'ingenious Work of some great Artisan.
China, where Potters coarsest Mould refine,
That Rays through the transparent Vessels shine;
The costly Plates and Dishes are from thence,
And Amazonia must her Sweets dispence;
To her warm Banks our Vessels cut the Main,
For the sweet Product of her luscious Cane.
Here Scotia does no costly Tribute bring,
Only some Kettles full of Todian Spring.

Where Indus and the double Ganges flow,
On odorif'rous Plains the Leaves do grow,
Chief of the Treat, a Plant the Boast of Fame,
Sometimes call'd Green, Bohea's its greater Name.

O happiest of Herbs! Who would not be
Pythagoriz'd into the Form of thee,
And with high Transports act the Part of Tea?
Kisses on thee the haughty Belles bestow,
While in thy Steams their coral Lips do glow;
Thy Vertues and thy Flavour they commend,
While Men, even Beaux, with parched Lips attend.

EPILOGUE.

The Curtain's drawn: Now gen'rous Reader say,
Have ye not read worse Numbers in a Play?
Sure here is Plot, Place, Character and Time,
All smoothly wrought in good firm British Rhime.
I own 'tis but a Sample of my Lays,
Which asks the Civil Sanction of your Praise.
Bestow't with Freedom, let your Praise be ample,
And I my self will show you good Example.
Keep up your Face, altho dull Criticks squint,
And cry, with empty Nod, There's Nothing in't:
They only mean there's Nothing they can use;
Because they find most where there's most Refuse.

Edward III, King of England who established the most honourable Order of the Garter.

A Probationer.

A kind Keeper.

It being alledged that the Eloquence of this Specie lies in the Elegance of Dress.

A famous River in South America, whence we have our Sugar.

Tod's-Well, which supplies the City with Water.

ELEGY ON MAGGY JOHNSTON , who died Anno 1711.

Auld Reeky mourn in Sable Hue,
Let Fouth of Tears dreep like May Dew,
To braw Tippony bid Adieu,
Which we with Greed
Bended as fast as she cou'd brew,
But ah! she's dead.

To tell the Truth now Maggy dang,
Of Customers she had a Bang;
For Lairds and Souters a' did gang
To drink bedeen,
The Barn and Yard was aft sae thrang,
We took the Green.

And there by Dizens we lay down,
Syne sweetly ca'd the Healths arown,
To bonny Lasses black or brown,
As wel oo'd best;
In Bumpers we dull Cares did drown,
And took our Rest.

When in our Poutch we fand some Clinks,
And took a Turn o'er Bruntsfield-Links,
Aften in Maggy's at Hy-jinks,
We guzl'd Scuds,
Till we cou'd scarce wi hale out Drinks
Cast aff our Duds.

We drank and drew, and fill'd again,
O wow but we were blyth and fain!
When ony had their Count mistain,
O it was nice,
To hear us a' cry, Pike ye'r Bain
And spell ye'r Dice.

Fou closs we us'd to drink and rant,
Until we did baith glowre and gaunt,
And pish and spew, and yesk and maunt,
Right swash I true;
Then of auld Stories we did cant
Whan we were fou.

Whan we were weary'd at the Gowff,
Then Maggy Johnston's was our Howff;
Now a' our Gamesters may sit dowff,
Wi' Hearts like Lead,
Death wi' his Rung rax'd her a Yowff,
And sae she died.

Maun we be forc'd thy Skill to tine?
For which we will right sair repine;
Or hast thou left to Bairns of thine
The pauky Knack
Of brewing Ale amaist like Wine?
That gar'd us crack.

Sae brawly did a Pease-scon Toast
Biz i' the Queff, and flie the Frost;
There we gat fou wi' little Cost,
And muckle Speed,
Now wae worth Death, our Sport's a' lost,
Since Maggy's dead.

Ae Simmer Night I was sae fou,
Amang the Riggs I geed to spew;
Syne down on a green Bawk, I trow
I took a Nap,
And soucht a' Night Balillilow
As sound's a Tap.

And whan the Dawn begoud to glow,
I hirsl'd up my dizzy Pow,
Frae 'mang the Corn like Wirricow,
Wi' Bains sae sair,
And ken' nae mair than if a Ew
How I came there.

Some said it was the Pith of Broom
That she stow'd in her Masking-loom,
Which in our Heads rais'd sic a Foom,
Or some wild Seed,
Which aft the Chaping Stoup did toom,
But fill'd our Head.

But now since 'tis sae that we must
Not in the best Ale put our Trust,
But whan we're auld return to Dust,
Without Remead,
Why shou'd we tak it in Disgust
That Maggy's dead.

Of warldly Comforts she was rife,
And liv'd a lang and hearty Life,
Right free of Care, or Toil, or Strife,
Till she was stale,
And ken'd to be a kanny Wife
At brewing Ale.

Then farewell Maggy douce and fell,
Of Brewers a' thou boor the Bell;
Let a' thy Gossies yelp and yell,
And without Feed,
Guess whether ye're in Heaven or Hell,
They're sure ye're dead.

Epitaph.

O Rare Maggy Johnston.

Maggy Johnston liv'd about a Mile Southward of Edinburgh, kept a little Farm, and had a particular Art of brewing a small Sort of Ale agreeable to the Taste, very white, clear and intoxicating, which made People who lov'd to have a good Pennyworth for their Money be her frequent Customers. And many others of every Station, sometimes for Diversion, thought it no Affront to be seen in her Barn or Yard.

A Name the Country People give Edinburgh from the Cloud of Smoak or Reek that is always impending over it.

She sold the Scots Pint, which is near to two Quarts English, for Twopence.

He dings, or dang, is a Phrase which means to excel or get the better.

Fields between Edinburgh and Maggy's, where the Citizens commonly play at the Gowff.

A drunken Game, or new Project to drink and be rich; thus, the Quaff or Cup is fill'd to the Brim, then one of the Company takes a Pair of Dice, and after crying Hy-jinks, he throws them out: The Number he casts up points out the Person must drink, he who threw, beginning at himself Number One, and so round till the Number of the Person agree with that of the Dice, (which may fall upon himself if the Number be within Twelve;) then he sets the Dice to him, or bids him take them: He on whom they fall is obliged to drink, or pay a small Forfeiture in Money; then throws, and so on: But if he forget to cry Hy-jinks he pays a Forfeiture into the Bank. Now he on whom it falls to drink, if there be any Thing in Bank worth drawing, gets it all if he drinks. Then with a great Deal of Caution he empties his Cup, sweeps up the Money, and orders the Cup to be fill'd again, and then throws; for if he err in the Articles, he loses the Privilege of drawing the Money. The Articles are, (1) Drink, (2) Draw, (3) Fill, (4) Cry Hy-jinks, (5) Count just, (6) Chuse your doublet Man, viz. when two equal Numbers of the Dice is thrown, the Person whom you chuse must pay a Double of the common Forfeiture, and so must you when the Dice is in his Hand. A rare Project this, and no Bubble I can assure you; for a covetous Fellow may save Money, and get himself as drunk as he can desire in less than an Hour's Time.

Pike ye'r Bain. Is a Cant Phrase, when one leaves a little in the Cup, he is advised to pike his Bone, i.e. Drink it clean out.

Reach'd her a Blow.

Or fright the Frost or Coldness out of it.

The two following Stanzas are a true Narrative.

On that slid Place where I 'maist brake my Bains,
To be a Warning I set up twa Stains,
That nane my venture there as I have done,
Unless wi' frosted Nails he clink his Shoon.

ELEGY ON JOHN COWPER Kirk-Treasurer's Man , ANNO 1714.

I wairn ye a' to greet and drone,
John Cowper's dead, Ohon! Ohon!
To fill his Post, alake there's none,
That with sic Speed
Cou'd sa'r Sculdudry out like John,
But now he's dead.

He was right nacky in his Way,
And eydent baith be Night and Day,
He wi' the Lads his Part cou'd play,
When right sair fleed,
He gart them good Bill-siller pay,
But now he's dead.

Of Whore-hunting he gat his Fill,
And made be't mony Pint and Gill:
Of his braw Post he thought nae Ill,
Nor did nae need,
Now they may mak a Kirk and Mill
O't, since he's dead.

Altho he was nae Man of Weir,
Yet mony a ane, wi quaking Fear,
Durst scarce afore his Face appear,
But hide their Head;
The wylie Carl he gather'd Gear,
And yet he's dead.

Ay now to some Part far awa,
Alas he's gane and left it a'!
May be to some sad Whilliwhaw
O' fremit Blood,
'Tis an ill Wind that dis na blaw
Some Body good.

Fy upon Death, he was to blame
To whirle poor John to his lang Hame:
But tho his Arse be cauld, yet Fame,
Wi' Tout of Trumpet,
Shall tell how Cowper's awfou Name
Cou'd flie a Strumpet.

He kend the Bawds and Louns fou well,
And where they us'd to rant and reel,
He paukily on them cou'd steal,
And spoil their Sport;
Aft did they wish the muckle De'll
Might tak him for't.

But ne'er a ane of them he spar'd,
E'en tho there was a drunken Laird
To draw his Sword, and make a Faird
In their Defence,
John quietly put them in the Guard
To learn mair Sense.

There maun they ly till sober grown,
The Lad neist Day his Fault maun own;
And to keep a' Things hush and low'n,
He minds the Poor,
Syne after a' his Ready's flown,
He damns the Whore.

And she, poor Jade, withoutten Din,
Is sent to Leith-Wynd Fit to spin,
With heavy Heart and Cleathing thin,
And hungry Wame,
And ilky Month a well paid Skin,
To mak her tame.

But now they may scoure up and down,
And safely gang their Wakes arown,
Spreading the Clap throw a' the Town,
But Fear or Dread;
For that great Kow to Bawd and Lown,
John Cowper's dead.

Shame faw ye'r Chandler Chafts, O Death;
For stapping of John Cowper's Breath;
The Loss of him is publick Skaith:
I dare well say,
To quat the Grip he was right laith
This mony a Day.

POSTSCRIPT.

Of umquhile John to lie or bann,
Shaws but ill Will, and looks right shan,
But some tell odd Tales of the Man,
For Fifty Head
Can gi'e their Aith they've seen him gawn
Since he was dead.

Keek but up throw the Stinking Stile,
On Sunday Morning a wee While,
At the Kirk Door out frae an Isle,
It will appear;
But tak good Tent ye dinna file
Ye'r Breeks for Fear.

For well we wat it is his Ghaist,
Wow, wad some Fouk that can do't best
Speak till't, and hear what it confest;
'Tis a good Deed
To send a wand'ring Saul to rest
Amang the Dead.

'Tis necessary for the Illustration of this Elegy to Strangers to let them a little into the History of the Kirk-Treasurer and his Man; The Treasurer is chosen every Year, a Citizen respected for Riches and Honesty; he is vested with an absolute Power to seise and imprison the Girls that are too impatient to have on their green Gown before it be hem'd; them he strictly examines, but no Liberty to be granted till a fair Account be given of these Persons they have obliged. It must be so: A List is frequently given sometimes of a Dozen or thereby of married or unmarried unfair Traders whom they secretly assisted in running their Goods, these his Lordship makes pay to some purpose according to their Ability, for the Use of the Poor: If the Lads be obstreperous, the Kirk-Sessions, and worst of all, the Stool of Repentance is threatned, a Punishment which few of any Spirit can bear.

The Treasurer being changed every Year, never comes to be perfectly acquainted with the Affair; but their general Servant continuing for a long Time, is more expert at discovering such Persons, and the Places of their Resort, which makes him capable to do himself and Customers both a good or an ill Turn. John Cowper maintain'd this Post with Activity and good Success for several Years.

In Allusion to a scent Dog, Sa'r from Savour or Smell, Sculdudry a Name commonly given to whoring.

Bull-silver.

She saw the Cow well serv'd, and took a Groat.
Gay.

Whilliwha is a kind of insinuating deceitful Fellow, Fremit Blood, not a kin, because he had then no legitimate Heirs of his own Body.

A Bustle like a Bully.

Pays hush Money to the Treasurer.

The House of Correction at the Foot of Leith-Wynd, such as Bridewell in London.

Lean or meager Cheeked, when the Bones appear like the Sides or Corners of a Candlestick, which in Scots we call a Chandler.

The common People when they tell their Tales of Ghosts appearing, they say, he has been seen gawn or stalking.

Opposite to this Place is the Door of the Church which he attends, being a Beadle.

'Tis another vulgar Notion, that a Ghost will not be laid to rest, till some Priest speak to it, and get Account what disturbs it.

ELEGY ON Lucky Wood in the Canongate, May 1717.

O Cannigate! poor elritch Hole,
What Loss, what Crosses does thou thole!
London and Death gars thee look drole,
And hing thy Head;
Wow, but thou has e'en a cauld Coal
To blaw indeed.

Hear me ye Hills, and every Glen,
Ilk Craig, ilk Cleugh, and hollow Den,
And Echo shrill, that a' may ken
The waefou Thud,
Be rackless Death, wha came unsenn
To Lucky Wood.

She's dead o'er true, she's dead and gane,
Left us and Willie Burd alane,
To bleer and greet, to sob and mane,
And rugg our Hair,
Because we'll ne'r see her again
For evermair.

She gae'd as fait as a new Prin,
And kept her Housie snod and been;
Her Peuther glanc'd upo' your Een
Like Siller Plate;
She was a donsie Wife and clean,
Without Debate.

It did ane good to see her Stools,
Her Boord, Fire-side, and facing Tools;
Rax, Chandlers, Tangs, and Fire-Shools,
Basket wi' Bread.
Poor Facers now may chew Pea-hoofs,
Since Lucky's dead.

She ne'er gae in a Lawin fause,
Nor Stoups a Froath aboon the Hause,
Nor kept dow'd Tip within her Waw's,
But reaming Swats;
She never ran sour Jute, because
It gee's the Batts.

She had the Gate sae well to please,
With gratis Beef, dry Fish, or Cheese;
Which kept our Purses ay at Ease,
And Health in Tift,
And lent her fresh Nine Gallon Trees
A hearty Lift.

She ga'e us aft hail Legs o' Lamb,
And did nae hain her Mutton Ham;
Then ay at Yule, when e'er we came,
A bra' Goose Pye,
And was na that good Belly Baum?
Nane dare deny.

The Writer Lads fow well may mind her,
Furthy was she, her Luck design'd her
Their common Mither, sure nane kinder
Ever brake Bread;
She has na left her Make behind her,
But now she's dead.

To the sma' Hours we aft sat still,
Nick'd round our Toasts and Snishing Mill;
Good Cakes we wanted ne'r at Will,
The best of Bread,
Which often cost us mony a Gill
To Aikenhead.

Cou'd our saut Tears like Clyde down rin,
And had we Cheeks like Corra's Lin,
That a' the Warld might hear the Din
Rair frae ilk Head;
She was the Wale of a' her Kin,
But now she's dead.

O Lucky Wood, 'tis hard to bear
The Loss; but Oh! we maun forbear:
Yet sall thy Memory be dear
While blooms a Tree,
And after Ages Bairns will spear
'Bout Thee and Me.

EPITAPH.

Beneath this Sod
Lies Lucky Wood,
Whom a' Men might put Faith in;
Wha was na sweer,
While she winn'd here,
To cramm our Wames for naithing.

Lucky Wood kept an Ale-house in the Canongate, was much respected for Hospitality, Honesty, and the Neatness both of her Person and House.

The Place of her Residence being the greatest Sufferer, by the Loss of our Members of Parliament, which London now enjoys, many of them having their Houses there, being the Suburb of Edinburgh nearest the King's Palace; this with the Death of Lucky Wood are sufficient to make the Place ruinous.

or unsent for. There's nothing extraordinary in this, it being his common Custom, except in some few Instances of late since the falling of the Bubbles.

Her Husband William Wood.

Stoups (or Pots) and Cups, so call'd from the Facers. See l. 29.

The Facers were a Club of fair Drinkers who inclined rather to spend a Shilling on Ale than Twopence for Meat; they had their Name from a Rule they observed of obliging themselves to throw all they left in the Cup in their own Faces: Wherefore to save their Face and Cloaths, they prudently suck'd the Liquor clean out.

All this Verse is a fine Picture of an honest Ale-seller; A Rarity.

The Nether-bow Porter, to whom Lucky's Customers were often obliged for opening the Port for them, when they staid out 'till the small Hours after Midnight.

A very high Precipice nigh Lanerk, over which the River of Clyde falls making a great Noise, which is heard some Miles off.

Lucky Spence's last Advice.

Three Times the Carline grain'd and rifted,
Then frae the Cod her Pow she lifted,
In bawdy Policy well gifted,
When she now faun,
That Death na langer wad be shifted,
She thus began:

My loving Lasses, I maun leave ye,
But dinna wi' ye'r Greeting grieve me,
Nor wi' your Draunts and Droning deave me,
But bring's a Gill;
For Faith, my Bairns, ye may believe me,
'Tis 'gainst my Will.

O black Ey'd Bess and mim Mou'd Meg,
O'er good to work or yet to beg;
Lay Sunkots up for a sair Leg,
For whan ye fail,
Ye'r Face will not be worth a Feg,
Nor yet ye'r Tail.

Whan e'er ye meet a Fool that's fow,
That ye're a Maiden gar him trow,
Seem nice, but stick to him like Glew;
And whan set down,
Drive at the Jango till he spew,
Syne he'll sleep soun.

Whan he's asleep, then dive and catch
His ready Cash, his Rings or Watch;
And gin he likes to light his Match
At your Spunk-box,
Ne'er stand to let the fumbling Wretch
E'en take the Pox.

Cleek a' ye can be Hook or Crook,
Ryp ilky Poutch frae Nook to Nook;
Be sure to truff his Pocket-book,
Saxty Pounds Scots
Is nae deaf Nits: In little Bouk
Lie great Bank-Notes.

To get a Mends of whinging Fools,
That's frighted for Repenting-Stools.
Wha often, whan their Metal cools,
Turn sweer to pay,
Gar the Kirk-Boxie hale the Dools
Anither Day.

But dawt Red Coats, and let them scoup,
Free for the Fou of cutty Stoup;
To gee them up, ye need na hope
E'er to do well:
They'll rive ye'r Brats and kick your Doup,
And play the Deel.

There's ae sair Cross attends the Craft,
That curst Correction-house, where aft
Vild Hangy's Taz ye'r Riggings saft
Makes black and blae,
Enough to pit a Body daft;
But what'll ye say.

Nane gathers Gear withouten Care,
Ilk Pleasure has of Pain a Skare;
Suppose then they should tirl ye bare,
And gar ye fike,
E'en learn to thole; 'tis very fair
Ye're Nibour like.

Forby, my Looves, count upo' Losses,
Ye'r Milk-white Teeth and Cheeks like Roses,
Whan Jet-black Hair and Brigs of Noses,
Faw down wi' Dads
To keep your Hearts up 'neath sic Crosses,
Set up for Bawds.

Wi' well crish'd Loofs I hae been canty,
Whan e'er the Lads wad fain ha'e faun t'ye;
To try the auld Game Taunty Raunty,
Like Coofers keen,
They took Advice of me your Aunty,
If ye were clean.

Then up I took my Siller Ca'
And whistl'd benn whiles ane, whiles twa;
Roun'd in his Lug, That there was a
Poor Country Kate,
As halesom as the Well of Spaw,
But unka blate.

Sae whan e'er Company came in,
And were upo' a merry Pin,
I slade away wi' little Din,
And muckle Mense,
Left Conscience Judge, it was a' ane
To Lucky Spence.

My Bennison come on good Doers,
Who spend their Cash on Bawds and Whores;
May they ne'er want the Wale of Cures
For a sair Snout:
Foul fa' the Quacks wha that Fire smoors,
And puts nae out.

My Malison light ilka Day
On them that drink, and dinna pay,
But tak a Snack and rin away;
May't be their Hap
Never to want a Gonorrhæa,
Or rotten Clap.

Lass gi'e us in anither Gill,
A Mutchken, Jo, let's tak our Fill;
Let Death syne registrate his Bill
Whan I want Sense,
I'll slip away with better Will,
Quo' Lucky Spence.

Lucky Spence, a famous Bawd who flourished for several Years about the Beginning of the Eighteenth Century; she had her Lodgings near Holyrood-house; she made many a benefit Night to herself, by putting a Trade in the Hands of young Lasses that had a little Pertness, strong Passions, Abundance of Laziness, and no Fore-thought.

Expresses an affected Modesty, by a preciseness about the Mouth.

I could give a large Annotation on this Sentence, but do not incline to explain every thing, lest I disoblige future Criticks, by leaving nothing for them to do.

or empty Nuts; This is a negative manner of saying a thing is substantial.

To be revenged; of whindging Fools, Fellows who wear the wrong side of their Faces outmost, Pretenders to Sanctity, who love to be smugling in a Corner.

Delate them to the Kirk-Treasurer. Hale the Dools is a Phrase used at Foot-ball, where the Party that gains the Goal or Dool is said to hail it or win the Game, and so draws the Stake.

Little Pot, i.e. a Gill of Brandy.

If they perform not the Task assign'd them, they are whipt by the Hangman.

The Emphasis of this Phrase, like many others, cannot be understood but by a Native.

But and ben signify different Ends or Rooms of a House; to gang But and ben is to go from one End of the House to the other.

Whisper'd in his Ear.

It was her usual Way of vindicating herself to tell ye, When Company came to her House, could she be so uncivil as to turn them out? If they did any bad thing, said she, between GOD and their Conscience be't.

Such Quacks as bind up the external Symptoms of the Pox, and drive it inward to the strong Holds, whence it is not so easily expelled.

TARTANA,

OR THE PLAID.

Ye Caledonian Beauties, who have long
Been both the Muse, and Subject of my Song,
Assist your Bard, who in harmonious Lays
Designs the Glory of your Plaid to raise:
How my fond Breast with blazing Ardour glows,
When e'er my Song on you just Praise bestows.

Phœbus, and his imaginary Nine,
With me have lost the Title of Divine;
To no such Shadows will I Homage pay,
These to my real Muses shall give Way:
My Muses, who on Smooth meand'ring Tweed,
Stray through the Groves, or grace the Clover Mead;
Or these who bath themselves where haughty Clyde
Does roaring o'er his lofty Cat'racts ride;
Or you who on the Banks of gentle Tay
Drain from the Flowers the early Dews of May,
To varnish on your Cheek the Crimson Dy,
Or make the White the falling Snow outvy:
And you who on Edina's Streets display
Millions of matchless Beauties every Day;
Inspir'd by you, what Poet can desire
To warm his Genius at a brighter Fire?

I sing the Plaid, and sing with all my Skill,
Mount then O Fancy, Standard to my Will;
Be strong each Thought, run soft each happy Line,
That Gracefulness and Harmony may shine,
Adapted to the beautiful Design.
Great is the Subject, vast th'exalted Theme,
And shall stand fair in endless Rolls of Fame.

The Plaid's Antiquity comes first in View,
Precedence to Antiquity is due:
Antiquity contains a certain Spell,
To make ev'n Things of little Worth excell;
To smallest Subjects gives a glaring Dash,
Protecting high born Idiots from the Lash:
Much more 'tis valu'd, when with Merit plac'd,
It graces Merit, and by Merit's grac'd.

O first of Garbs! Garment of happy Fate!
So long employ'd of such an antique Date;
Look back some Thousand Years, till Records fail,
And lose themselves in some Romantick Tale,
We'll find our Godlike Fathers nobly scorn'd
To be with any other Dress adorn'd;
Before base foreign Fashions interwove,
Which 'gainst their Int'rest and their Brav'ry strove.
'Twas they could boast their Freedom with proud Rome,
And arm'd in Steel despise the Senate's Doom;
Whil'st o'er the Globe their Eagle they display'd,
And conquer'd Nations prostrate Homage paid,
They only, they unconquer'd stood their Ground,
And to the mighty Empire fixt the Bound.
Our native Prince who then supply'd the Throne,
In Plaid array'd magnificently shone:
Nor seem'd his Purple, or his Ermine less,
Tho cover'd by the Caledonian Dress.
In this at Court the Thanes were gayly clad,
With this the Shepherds and the Hinds were glad,

In this the Warrior wrapt his brawny Arms,
With this our beauteous Mothers vail'd their Charms;
When ev'ry Youth, and every lovely Maid
Deem'd it a Deshabille to want their Plaid.

O Heav'ns! How chang'd? How little look their Race?
When foreign Chains with foreign Modes take Place;
When East and Western-Indies must combine
To deck the Fop, and make the Gewgaw shine.
Thus while the Grecian Troops in Persia lay,
And learn'd the Habit to be soft and gay,
By Luxury enerv'd, they lost the Day.

I ask'd Varell, what Soldiers he thought best?
And thus he answer'd to my plain Request;
“Were I to lead Battalions out to War,
“And hop'd to triumph in the Victor's Car,
“To gain the loud Applause of worthy Fame,
“And Columns rais'd to eternize my Name,
“I'd choose, had I my Choice, that hardy Race
“Who fearless can look Terrors in the Face;
“Who midst the Snows the best of Limbs can fold
“In Tartan Plaids, and smile at chilling Cold:
“No useless Trash should pain my Soldier's Back,
“Nor Canvass Tents make loaden Axles crack;
“No rattling Silks I'd to my Standards bind,
“But bright Tartana's waving in the Wind:
“The Plaid alone should all my Ensigns be,
“This Army from such Banners would not flie.
“These, these were they, who naked taught the Way
“To fight with Art, and boldly gain the Day.
Ev'n great Gustavus stood himself amaz'd,
While at their wond'rous Skill and Force he gaz'd.
With such brave Troops one might o'er Europe run,
Make out what Richlieu fram'd, and Lewis had begun.

Degenerate Men! Now Ladies please to sit,
That I the Plaid in all its Airs may hit,
With all the Powers of Softness mixt with Wit.

While scorching Titan tawns the Shepherd's Brow,
And whistling Hinds sweat lagging at the Plow:
The piercing Beams Brucina can defy,
Not Sun-burnt she's, nor dazl'd is her Eye.
Ugly's the Mask, the Fan's a trifling Toy
To still at Church some Girl or restless Boy.
Fixt to one Spot's the Pine and Myrtle Shades,
But on each Motion wait th'Umbrellian Plaids,
Repelling Dust when Winds disturb the Air,
And give a Check to every ill bred Stare.

Light as the Pinions of the airy Fry,
Of Larks and Linnets who traverse the Sky,
Is the Tartana spun so very fine,
Its Weight can never make the Fair repine,
By raising Ferments in her glowing Blood,
Which cannot be escap'd within the Hood:
Nor does it move beyond its proper Sphere,
But let's the Gown in all its Shapes appear;
Nor is the Straightness of her Waist deny'd
To be by every ravisht Eye survey'd.
For this the Hoop may stand at largest Bend,
It comes not nigh, nor can its Weight offend.

The Hood and Mantle make the tender faint;
I'm pain'd to see them moving like a Tent.
By Heather Jenny in her Blanket drest,
The Hood and Mantle fully are exprest;
Which round her Neck with Rags is firmly bound,
While Heather Besoms loud she screams around.
Was Goody Strode so great a Pattern, say?
Are ye to follow when such lead the way?
But know each Fair who shall this Sur-tout use,
You're no more Scots, and cease to be my Muse.

The smoothest Labours of the Persian Loom
Lin'd in the Plaid, set off the Beauty's Bloom;
Faint is the Gloss, nor come the Colours nigh,
Tho white as Milk, or dipt in Scarlet Dy.

The Lily pluckt by fair Pringella grieves,
Whose whiter Hand outshines its snowy Leaves:
No wonder then white Silks in our Esteem,
Match'd with her fairer Face, they sully'd seem.

If shining Red Campbella's Cheeks adorn,
Our Fancies straight conceive the blushing Morn;
Beneath whose Dawn the Sun of Beauty lies,
Nor need we Light but from Campbella's Eyes.

If lin'd with Green Stuarta's Plaid we view,
Or thine Ramseia edg'd around with Blue;
One shews the Spring when Nature is most kind,
The other Heav'n, whose Spangles lift the Mind.

A Garden Plot enrich'd with chosen Flowers,
In Sun Beams basking after vernal Showers,
Where lovely Pinks in sweet Confusion rise,
And Amaranths and Eglintines surprise;
Hedg'd round with fragrant Brier and Jessamine,
The rosie Thorn and variegated Green;
These give not half that Pleasure to the View,
As when, Fergusia, Mortals gaze on you:
You raise our Wonder, and our Love engage,
Which makes us curse, and yet admire the Hedge;
The Silk and Tartan Hedge, which does conspire
With you to kindle Love's soft spreading Fire.
How many Charms can every fair one boast!
How oft's our Fancy in the Plenty lost!
These more remote, these we admire the most.
What's too familiar often we despise,
But Rarity makes still the Value rise.

If Sol himself shou'd shine through all the Day,
We cloy, and lose the Pleasure of his Ray:
But if behind some marly Cloud he steal,
Nor for sometime his radiant Head reveal,
With brighter Charms his Absence he repays,
And every Sun Beam seems a double Blaze.

So when the Fair their dazling Lustres shroud,
And disappoint us with a Tartan Cloud,
How fondly do we peep with wishful Eye,
Transported when one lovely Charm we spy?
Oft to our Cost, ah me! we often find
The Power of Love strikes deep, tho he be blind;
Perch'd on a Lip, a Cheek, a Chin, or Smile,
Hits with Surprise, and throws young Hearts in Jail.

From when the Cock proclaims the rising Day,
And Milk-maids sing around sweet Curds and Whey;
Till gray-ey'd Twilight, Harbinger of Night,
Pursues o'er Silver Mountains sinking Light,
I can unwearied from my Casements view
The Plaid, with something still about it new.
How are we pleas'd, when with a handsome Air
We see Hepburna walk with easy Care?
One Arm half circles round her slender Waist,
The other like an Ivory Pillar plac'd,
To hold her Plaid around her modest Face,
Which saves her Blushes with the gayest Grace:
If in white Kids her taper Fingers move,
Or unconfin'd jet thro' the sable Glove.

With what a pretty Action Keitha holds
Her Plaid, and varies oft its airy Folds;
How does that naked Space the Spirits move,
Between the rufl'd Lawn and envious Glove?
We by the Sample, tho no more be seen,
Imagine all that's fair within the Skreen.

Thus Belles in Plaids vail and display their Charms,
The Love-sick Youth thus bright Humea warms,
And with her graceful Meen her Rivals all alarms.

The Plaid itself gives Pleasure to the Sight,
To see how all its Setts imbibe the Light;

Forming some Way, which even to me lies hid,
White, Black, Blew, Yellow, Purple, Green and Red.
Let Newton's Royal Club through Prisms stare,
To view Celestial Dyes with curious Care,
I'll please my self, nor shall my Sight ask Aid
Of Cristal Gimcracks to survey the Plaid.

How decent is the Plaid when in the Pew,
It hides th'inchanting Fair from Ogler's View.
The Mind's oft crowded with ill tim'd Desires,
When Nymphs unvail'd approach the sacred Quires.
Even Senators who guard the Common-weal,
Their Minds may rove;—Are Mortals made of Steel?
The finisht Beaux stand up in all their Airs,
And search out Beauties more than mind their Prayers.
The wainscot Forty Six's are perplext
To be eclips'd, Spite makes them drop the Text.
The younger gaze at each fine Thing they see;
The Orator himself is scarcely free.
Ye then who wou'd your Piety express,
To sacred Domes ne'er come in naked Dress.
The Power of Modesty shall still prevail;
Then Scotian Virgins use your native Vail.

Thus far young Cosmel read; then star'd and curst,
And askt me very gravely how I durst
Advance such Praises for a Thing despis'd?
He smiling, swore I had been ill advis'd.

To you, said I, perhaps this may seem true,
And Numbers vast, nor Fools may side with you:
As many shall my Sentiments approve;
Tell me what's not the Butt of Scorn and Love?
Were Mankind all agreed to think one Way,
What wou'd Divines and Poets have to say?
No Ensigns wou'd on Martial Fields be spread,
And Corpus Juris never wou'd be read:

We'd need no Councils, Parliaments, nor Kings,
Ev'n Wit and Learning wou'd turn silly Things.
You miss my Meaning still, I'm much afraid,
I would not have them always wear the Plaid.

Old Salem's Royal Sage, of Wits the Prime,
Said, For each Thing there was a proper Time.
Night's but Aurora's Plaid, that ta'en away,
We lose the Pleasure of returning Day;
Ev'n through the Gloom, when view'd in sparkling Skies,
Orbs scarcely seen, yet gratify our Eyes:
So through Hamilla's op'ned Plaid, we may
Behold her heavenly Face, and heaving milky Way.
Spanish Reserve, join'd with a Gallick Air,
If manag'd well, becomes the Scotian Fair.

Now you say well, said he; But when's the Time
That they may drop the Plaid without a Crime?

Then I,

Lest, O fair Nymphs, ye should our Patience tire,
And starch Reserve extinguish gen'rous Fire;
Since Heaven your soft victorious Charms design'd
To form a Smoothness on the rougher Mind:
When from the bold and noble Toils of War,
The rural Cares, or Labours of the Bar;
From these hard Studies which are learn'd and grave,
And some from dang'rous Riding o'er the Wave:
The Caledonian manly Youth resort
To their Edina, Love's great Mart and Port,
And crowd her Theatres with all that Grace
Which is peculiar to the Scotian Race;
At Consort, Ball, or some Fair's Marriage-Day,
O then with Freedom all that's sweet display.
When Beauty's to be judged without a Vail,
And not its Powers met out as by Retail,
But Wholesale, all at once, to fill the Mind
With Sentiments gay, soft, and frankly kind;

Throw by the Plaid, and like the Lamp of Day,
When there's no Cloud to intercept his Ray.
So shine Maxella, nor their Censure fear,
Who, Slaves to Vapours, dare not so appear.

On Ida's Height, when to the Royal Swain,
To know who should the Prize of Beauty gain,
Jove sent his two fair Daughters and his Wife,
That he might be the Judge to end the Strife:
Hermes was Guide, they found him by a Tree,
And thus they spake with Air divinely free,
Say, Paris, which is fairest of us three.
To Jove's high Queen, and the Celestial Maids,
E're he wou'd pass his Sentence, cry'd, No Plaids.
Quickly the Goddesses obey'd his Call,
In simple Nature's Dress he view'd them all,
Then to Cyth'rea gave the Golden Ball.

Great Criticks hail! our Dread, whose Love or Hate,
Can with a Frown, or Smile, give Verse its Fate;
Attend, while o'er this Field my Fancy roams,
I've somewhat more to say, and here it comes.

When Virtue was a Crime, in Tancred's Reign,
There was a noble Youth who wou'd not deign
To own for Sovereign one a Slave to Vice,
Or blot his Conscience at the highest Price;
For which his Death's devis'd with hellish Art,
To tear from his warm Breast his beating Heart.
Fame told the tragick News to all the Fair,
Whose num'rous Sighs and Groans bound through the Air:
All mourn his Fate, Tears trickle from each Eye,
Till his kind Sister threw the Woman by;
She in his Stead a gen'rous Off'ring staid,
And he, the Tyrant baulk'd, hid in her Plaid.
So when Æneas with Achilles strove,
The Goddess Mother hasted from above,
Well seen in Fate, prompt by maternal Love,

Wrapt him in Mist, and warded off the Blow
That was design'd him by his valiant Foe.

I of the Plaid could tell a hundred Tales,
Then hear another, since that Strain prevails.

The Tale no Records tell, it is so old,
It happned in the easy Age of Gold,
When am'rous Jove Chief of th'Olympian Gods,
Pall'd with Saturnia, came to our Abodes,
A Beauty-hunting; for in these soft Days,
Nor Gods, nor Men delighted in a Chace
That would destroy, not propagate their Race.
Beneath a Fir-Tree in Glentanar's Groves,
Where, e'er gay Fabricks rose, Swains sung their Loves,
Iris lay sleeping in the open Air,
A bright Tartana vail'd the lovely Fair;
The wounded God beheld her matchless Charms,
With earnest Eyes, and grasp'd her in his Arms.
Soon he made known to her, with gaining Skill,
His Dignity, and Import of his Will.
Speak thy Desire, the Divine Monarch said.
Make me a Goddess, cry'd the Scotian Maid,
Nor let hard Fate bereave me of my Plaid.
Be thon the Hand-maid to my mighty Queen,
Said Jove, and to the World be often seen
With the celestial Bow, and thus appear
Clad with these radiant Colours as thy Wear.

Now say my Muse, e're thou forsake the Field,
What Profit does the Plaid to Scotia yield,
Justly that claims our Love, Esteem and Boast,
Which is produc'd within our native Coast.
On our own Mountains grows the Golden Fleece,
Richer than that which Jason brought to Greece:
A beneficial Branch of Albion's Trade,
And the first Parent of the Tartan Plaid.

Our fair ingenious Ladies Hands prepare
The equal Threeds, and give the Dyes with Care:
Thousands of Artists sullen Hours decoy
On rattling Looms, and view their Webs with Joy.

May she be curst to starve in Frogland Fens,
To wear a Fala ragg'd at both the Ends,
Groan still beneath an antiquated Suit,
And die a Maid at fifty five to boot;
May she turn quaggy Fat, or crooked Dwarff,
Be ridicul'd while primm'd up in her Scarff;
May Spleen and Spite still keep her on the Fret,
And live till she outlive her Beauty's Date;
May all this fall, and more than I have said,
Upon that Wench who disregards the Plaid.

But with the Sun let ev'ry Joy arise,
And from soft Slumbers lift her happy Eyes;
May blooming Youth be fixt upon her Face,
Till she has seen her fourth descending Race;
Blest with a Mate with whom she can agree,
And never want the finest of Bohea:
May ne'er the Miser's Fears make her afraid,
Who joins with me, with me admires the Plaid.
Let bright Tartana's henceforth ever shine,
And Caledonian Goddesses enshrine.

Fair Judges to your Censure I submit,
If you allow this Poem to have Wit,
I'll look with Scorn upon these musty Fools,
Who only move by old worm-eaten Rules.
But with th'ingenious if my Labours take,
I wish them ten Times better for their Sake;
Who shall esteem this vain are in the wrong,
I'll prove the Moral is prodigious strong:
I hate to trifle, Men should act like Men,
And for their Country only draw their Sword and Pen.

Ochel Hills.

Homer.

A large Wood in the North of Scotland.

A little square Cloath wore by the Dutch Women.

SCOTS SONGS.

The happy Lover's Reflections.

The last Time I came o'er the Moor,
I left my Love behind me;
Ye Pow'rs! What Pain do I endure,
When soft Idea's mind me:
Soon as the ruddy Morn display'd
The beaming Day ensuing,
I met betimes my lovely Maid,
In fit Retreats for wooing.

Beneath the cooling Shade we lay,
Gazing and chastly sporting;
We kiss'd and promis'd Time away,
'Till Night spread her black Curtain.
I pitied all beneath the Skies,
Ev'n Kings, when she was nigh me;
In Raptures I beheld her Eyes,
Which could but ill deny me.

Shou'd I be call'd where Cannons rore,
Where mortal Steel may wound me,
Or cast upon some foreign Shore,
Where Dangers may surround me;

Yet hopes again to see my Love,
To feast on glowing Kisses,
Shall make my Cares at Distance move,
In Prospect of such Blisses.

In all my Soul there's not one Place
To let a Rival enter;
Since she excells in ev'ry Grace,
In her my Love shall center.
Sooner the Seas shall cease to flow,
Their Waves the Alps shall cover,
On Greenland Ice shall Roses grow,
Before I cease to love her.

The next Time I go o'er the Moor
She shall a Lover find me,
And that my Faith is firm and pure,
Tho I left her behind me:
Then Hymen's sacred Bonds shall chain
My Heart to her fair Bosom,
There, while my Being does remain,
My Love more fresh shall blossom.

The Lass of Peattie's Mill.

The Lass of Peattie's Mill,
So bonny, blyth and gay,
In spite of all my Skill,
She stole my Heart away.
When tedding of the Hay
Bare-headed on the Green,
Love 'midst her Locks did play,
And wanton'd in her Een.

Her Arms white, round and smooth,
Breasts rising in their Dawn,
To Age it wou'd give Youth,
To press 'em with his Hand.
Thro' all my Spirits ran
An Extasy of Bliss,
When I such Sweetness fand
Wrapt in a balmy Kiss.

Without the Help of Art,
Like Flowers which Grace the Wild,
She did her Sweets impart,
When e'er she spoke or smil'd.
Her Looks they were so mild,
Free from affected Pride,
She me to Love beguil'd;
I wish'd her for my Bride.

O had I all that Wealth
Hopeton's high Mountains fill,
Insur'd long Life and Health,
And Pleasure at my Will;
I'd promise and fulfill,
That none but bonny She,
The Lass of Peattie's Mill
Shou'd share the same wi' me.

Thirty three Miles South west of Edinburgh, where the Right Honourable the Earl of Hopeton's Mines of Gold and Lead are.

DELIA.

[_]

To the Tune of Green Sleeves.

Ye watchful Guardians of the Fair,
Who skiff on Wings of ambient Air,
Of my dear Delia take a Care,
And represent her Lover
With all the Gayety of Youth,
With Honour, Justice, Love and Truth,
Till I return, her Passions sooth
For me, in Whispers move her.

Be careful, no base sordid Slave,
With Soul sunk in a golden Grave,
Who knows no Virtue but to save,
With glaring Gold bewitch her.
Tell her for me she was design'd,
For me who know how to be kind,
And have more Plenty in my Mind,
Than one who's ten Times richer.

Let all the World turn upside down,
And Fools run an eternal Round,
In Quest of what can ne'er be found,
To please their vain Ambition.
Let little Minds great Charms espy
In Shadows which at Distance ly,
Whose hop'd for Pleasure when come nigh,
Prove nothing in Fruition.

But cast into a Mold Divine,
Fair Delia does with Lustre shine,
Her virtuous Soul's an ample Mine,
Which yeilds a constant Treasure.
Let Poets in sublimest Lays,
Imploy their Skill her Fame to raise;
Let Sons of Musick pass whole Days,
With well tun'd Reeds to please her.

The Yellow-hair'd Laddie.

In April when Primroses paint the sweet Plain,
And Summer approaching rejoiceth the Swain,
The Yellow-hair'd Laddie would oftentimes go
To Wilds and deep Glens where the Hawthorn-trees grow.

There under the Shade of an old sacred Thorn,
With Freedom he sung his Loves, Ev'ning and Morn;
He sang with so soft and inchanting a Sound,
That Silvans and Fairies unseen danc'd around.

The Shepherd thus sung, Tho young Maya be fair,
Her Beauty is dash'd with a scornful proud Air;
But Susie was handsome, and sweetly could sing,
Her Breath like the Breezes perfum'd in the Spring.

That Madie in all the gay Bloom of her Youth,
Like the Moon was unconstant, and never spoke Truth;
But Susie was faithful, good humour'd and free,
And fair as the Goddess who sprung from the Sea.

That Mamma's fine Daughter, with all her great Dowr,
Was aukwardly airy, and frequently sowr:
Then sighing, he wished, would Parents agree,
The witty sweet Susie his Mistress might be.

NANNYO.

While some for Pleasure pawn their Health,
'Twixt Lais and the Bagnio,
I'll save my self, and without Stealth,
Kiss and caress my Nanny—O.
She bids more fair t'ingage a Jove,
Than Leda did or Danae —O;
Were I to paint the Queen of Love,
None else shou'd sit but Nanny—O.

How joyfully my Spirits rise,
When dancing she moves finely—O,
I guess what Heav'n is by her Eyes,
Which sparkle so divinely O.
Attend my Vow, ye Gods, while I
Breath in the blest Britannio,
None's Happiness I shall envy,
As long's ye grant me Nanny—O.

CHORUS.

My bonny, bonny Nanny—O,
My loving charming Nanny—O,
I care not tho the world do know
How dearly I love Nanny—O.

A famous Corinthian Courtizan.

Two Beauties to whom Jove made Love; to one in the Figure of a Swan, to the other in a Golden Shower.

BONNY JEAN.

Love's Goddess in a Myrtle Grove
Said, Cupid, bend thy Bow with Speed,
Nor let the Shaft at Random rove,
For Jeanie's haughty Heart must bleed.
The smiling Boy, with divine Art,
From Paphos shot an Arrow keen,
Which flew unerring to the Heart,
And kill'd the Pride of bonny Jean.

No more the Nymph with haughty Air
Refuses Willie's kind Address;
Her yielding Blushes shew no Care,
But too much Fondness to suppress.
No more the Youth is sullen now,
But looks the gayest on the Green,
Whilst every Day he spies some new
Surprising Charms in bonny Jean.

A Thousand Transports crowd his Breast,
He moves as light as fleeting Wind,
His former Sorrows seem a Jest,
Now when his Jeanie is turn'd kind:
Riches he looks on with Disdain,
The glorious Fields of War look mean,
The chearful Hound and Horn give Pain,
If absent from his bonny Jean.

The Day he spends in am'rous Gaze,
Which even in Summer shorten'd seems:
When sunk in Downs with glad Amaze,
He wonders at her in his Dreams.

All Charms disclos'd, she looks more bright
Than Troy's fair Prize, the Spartan Queen:
With breaking Day he lifts his Sight,
And pants to be with bonny Jean.

The Kind Reception.

[_]

To the Tune of Auld Lang Syne.

Should auld Acquaintance be forgot,
Tho they return with Scars?
These are the noble Heroe's Lot,
Obtain'd in glorious Wars:
Welcome my Varo to my Breast,
Thy Arms about me twine,
And make me once again as blest,
As I was lang syne.

Methinks around us on each Bough,
A Thousand Cupids play,
Whilst thro' the Groves I walk with you,
Each Object makes me gay.
Since your Return the Sun and Moon
With brighter Beams do shine,
Streams murmur soft Notes while they run,
As they did lang syne.

Despise the Court and Din of State,
Let that to their Share fall;
Who can esteem such Slav'ry great,
While bounded like a Ball?
But sunk in Love, upon my Arms
Let your brave Head recline,
We'll please our selves with mutual Charms,
As we did lang syne.

O'er Moor and Dale with your gay Friend
You may pursue the Chace;
And after a blyth Bottle end
All Cares in my Embrace:
And in a vacant rainy Day
You shall be wholly mine;
We'll make the Hours run smooth away,
And laugh at lang syne.

The Heroe pleas'd with the sweet Air,
And Signs of gen'rous Love,
Which had been utter'd by the Fair,
Bow'd to the Pow'rs above:
Next Day with Consent and glad Haste
Th'approach'd the sacred Shrine,
Where the good Priest the Couple blest,
And put them out of Pine.

The PENITENT.

[_]

To the Tune of the Lass of Livingston.

Pain'd with her slighting Jamie's Love,
Bell dropt a Tear,—Bell dropt a Tear,
The Gods descended from above,
Well pleas'd to hear,—Well pleas'd to hear.
They heard the Praises of the Youth
From her own Tongue,—From her own Tongue,
Who now converted was to Truth,
And thus she sung,—and thus she sung,

Blest Days when our ingen'ous Sex,
More frank and kind,—More frank and kind,
Did not their lov'd Adorers vex,
But spoke their Mind,—But spoke their Mind.
Repenting now she promis'd fair,
Wou'd he return,—Wou'd he return,
She ne'er again wou'd give him Care,
Or Cause to mourn,—Or Cause to mourn.

Why lov'd I the deserving Swain,
Yet still thought Shame,—Yet still thought Shame,
When he my yielding Heart did gain,
To own my Flame,—To own my Flame?
Why took I Pleasure to torment,
And seem too coy,—And seem too coy?
Which makes me now, alas! lament
My slighted Joy,—My slighted Joy.

Ye Fair, while Beauty's in its Spring,
Own your Desire,—Own your Desire;
While Love's young Power with his soft Wing
Fans up the Fire,—Fans up the Fire.
O do not with a silly Pride,
Or low Design,—Or low Design,
Refuse to be a happy Bride,
But answer plain,—But answer plain.

Thus the fair Mourner wail'd her Crime,
With flowing Eyes,—With flowing Eyes;
Glad Jamie heard her all the Time,
With sweet Surprise,—With sweet Surprise,
Some God had led him to the Grove,
His Mind unchang'd,—His Mind unchang'd,
Flew to her Arms, and cry'd, My Love,
I am reveng'd,—I am reveng'd!

LOVE'S CURE.

[_]

To the Tune of Peggy I must Love Thee.

As from a Rock past all Relief,
The Shipwreckt Colin spying
His native Home, o'ercome with Grief,
Half sunk in Waves and dying;
With the next Morning Sun he spies
A Ship, which gives unhop'd Surprise,
New Life springs up, he lifts his Eyes
With Joy, and waits her Motion.

So when by her whom long I lov'd,
I scorn'd was and deserted,
Low with Despair my Spirits mov'd,
To be for ever parted:
Thus droopt I, till diviner Grace
I found in Peggy's Mind and Face;
Ingratitude appear'd then base,
But Virtue more engaging.

Then now since happily I've hit,
I'll have no more delaying,
Let Beauty yield to manly Wit,
We lose our selves in staying;
I'll haste dull Courtship to a Close,
Since Marriage can my Fears oppose,
Why should we happy Minutes lose,
Since Peggy I must love thee?

Men may be foolish, if they please,
And deem't a Lover's Duty,
To sigh, and sacrifice their Ease,
Doating on a proud Beauty:

Such was my Case for many a Year,
Still Hope succeeding to my Fear.
False Betty's Charms now disappear,
Since Peggy's far outshine them.

ODE.

[Hence every Thing that can]

Hence every Thing that can
Disturb the Quiet of Man:
Be blyth my Soul,
In a full Bowl
Drown thy Care.
And repair
The vital Stream:
Since Life's a Dream.
Let Wine abound,
And Healths go round.
We'll sleep more sound:
And let the dull unthinking Mob pursue
Each endless Wish, and still their Toll renew.

Bessy Bell and Mary Gray.

O Bessy Bell and Mary Gray
They are twa bonny Lasses,
They bigg'd a Bower on yon Burn-brae
And theek'd it o'er wi' Rashes.

Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen,
And thought I ne'er cou'd alter;
But Mary Gray's twa pawky Een,
They gar my Fancy falter.

Now Bessy's Hair's like a Lint Tap,
She smiles like a May Morning,
When Phœbus starts frae Thetis' Lap,
The Hills with Rays adorning:
White is her Neck, saft is her Hand,
Her Waste and Feet's fow genty,
With ilka Grace she can command,
Her Lips, O wow! they're dainty.

And Mary's Locks are like the Craw,
Her Eye like Diamonds glances;
She's ay sae clean, red-up and braw,
She kills when e'er she dances:
Blyth as a Kid, with Wit at Will,
She blooming tight and tall is;
And guides her Airs sae gracefou still,
O Jove! she's like thy Pallas.

Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
Ye unco' sair oppress us,
Our Fancies jee between you twae,
Ye are sic bonny Lasses:
Wae's me, for baith I canna get,
To ane by Law we're stented;
Then I'll draw Cuts and take my Fate,
And be with ane contented.

The Young LAIRD and Edinburgh KATY.

Now wat ye wha I met Yestreen
Coming down the Street, my Jo,
My Mistress in her Tartan Screen,
Fou bonny, braw and sweet, my Jo.
My Dear, quoth I, Thanks to the Night
That never wisht a Lover ill;
Since ye're out of your Mither's Sight,
Let's take a Wauk up to the Hill.

O Katy wiltu gang wi' me,
And leave the dinsom Town a while,
The Blossom's sprouting frae the Tree,
And a' the Summer's gawn to smile;
The Mavis, Nightingale and Lark,
The bleeting Lambs and whistling Hynd,
In ilka Dale, Green, Shaw and Park,
Will nourish Health and glad ye'r Mind.

Soon as the clear Goodman of Day
Does bend his Morning Draught of Dew,
We'll gae to some Burn-side and play,
And gather Flowers to busk ye'r Brow.
We'll pou the Daizies on the Green,
The lucken Gowans frae the Bog;
Between Hands now and then we'll lean,
And sport upo' the Velvet Fog.

There's up into a pleasant Glen,
A wee Piece frae my Father's Tower,
A canny, saft and flowry Den,
Which circling Birks has form'd a Bower:

When e'er the Sun grows high and warm,
We'll to the cauller Shade remove,
There will I lock thee in mine Arm,
And love and kiss, and kiss and love.

The Castle-hill, where young People frequently take the Air on an Evening.

KATY'S ANSWER.

My Mither's ay glowran o'er me,
Tho she did the same before me,
I canna get Leave
To look to my Loove,
Or else she'll be like to devour me.

Right fain wad I take ye'r Offer,
Sweet Sir, but I'll tine my Tocher,
Then Sandy ye'll fret,
And wyt ye'r poor Kate,
When e'er ye keek in your toom Coffer.

For tho my Father has Plenty
Of Siller and Plenishing dainty,
Yet he's unco sweer
To twin wi' his Gear;
And sae we had need to be tenty.

Tutor my Parents wi' Caution,
Be wylie in ilka Motion;
Brag well o' ye'r Land,
And there's my leal Hand,
Win them, I'll be at your Devotion.

EDINBURGH'S ADDRESS TO THE COUNTRY.

NOVEMBER 1718.

From me Edina, to the Brave and Fair,
Health, Joy and Love, and Banishment of Care:
Forasmuch as bare Fields and gurly Skies
Make rural Scenes ungrateful to the Eyes;
When Hyperborean Blasts confound the Plain,
Driving, by Turns, light Snow and heavy Rain;
Ye Swains and Nymphs, forsake the withered Grove,
That no damp Colds may nip the Buds of Love;
Since Winds and Tempests o'er the Mountains ride,
Haste here where Choice of Pleasures do reside;
Come to my Tow'rs, and leave th'unpleasant Scene,
My cheerful Bosom shall your Warmth sustain,
Screen'd in my Walls, you may bleak Winter shun,
And, for a while, forget the distant Sun:
My blazing Fires, bright Lamps, and sparkling Wine,
As Summer Sun shall warm, like him shall shine.

My witty Clubs of Minds that move at large,
With every Glass can some great Thought discharge;
When from my Senate, and the Toils of Law,
T'unbend the Mind from Bus'ness you withdraw,
With such gay Friends to laugh some Hours away,
My Winter Even shall ding the Summer's Day.

My Schools of Law produce a manly Train
Of fluent Orators, who Right maintain,
Practis'd t'express themselves a graceful Way,
An Eloquence shines forth in all they say.

Some Raphael, Ruben, or Vandike admire,
Whose Bosoms glow with such a Godlike Fire.
Of my own Race I have, who shall ere long,
Challenge a Place amongst the immortal Throng.

Others in smoothest Numbers are profuse,
And can in Mantuan Dactyl's lead the Muse:
And others can with Musick make you gay,
With sweetest Sounds Correlli's Art display,
While they arround in softest Measures sing,
Or beat melodious Solo's from the String.

What Pleasure can exceed to know what's great,
The Hinge of War, and winding Draughts of State?
These and a Thousand Things th'aspiring Youth
May learn, with Pleasure, from the Sages Mouth;
While they full fraughted Judgments do unload,
Relating to Affairs Home and Abroad.
The generous Soul is fir'd with noble Flame,
To emulate victorious Eugene's Fame,
Who with fresh Glories decks th'Imperial Throne,
Making the haughty Ott'man Empire grone.
He'll learn when warlike Sweden and the Czar,
The Danes and Prussians shall demit the War;
T'observe what mighty Turns of Fate may spring
From this new War rais'd by Iberia's King.

Long ere the Morn from Eastern Seas arise,
To sweep Night-shades from off the vaulted Skies,
Oft Love or Law in Dream your Mind may toss,
And push the sluggish Senses to their Posts;
The Hautboys distant Notes shall then oppose
Your phantom Cares, and lull you to Repose.

To Visit and take Tea, the well dress'd Fair
May pass the Crowd unruffled in her Chair;
No Dust or Mire her shining Foot shall stain,
Or on the horizontal Hoop give Pain.
For Beaux and Belles no City can compare,
Nor shew a Galaxy so made, so fair;
The Ears are charm'd, and ravish'd are the Eyes,
When at the Consort my fair Stars arise.
What Poets of fictitious Beauties sing,
Shall in bright Order fill the dazling Ring:
From Venus, Pallas, and the Spouse of Jove,
They'd gain the Prize, judg'd by the God of Love:
Their Sun-burnt Features wou'd look dull, and fade,
Compar'd with my sweet White and blushing Red.
The Character of Beauties so Divine,
The Muse for Want of Words cannot define.
The panting Soul beholds with awful Love,
Impress'd on Clay th'Angelick Forms above,
Whose softest Smiles can pow'rfully impart
Raptures sublime, in dumb Show, to the Heart.

The Strength of all these Charms, if ye defy,
My Court of Justice shall make you comply.
Welcome, my Session, thou my Bosom warms,
Thrice three Times welcome to thy Mother's Arms:
Thy Father long, rude Man! has left my Bed,
Thou'rt now my Guard, and Support of my Trade;
My Heart yearns after thee with strong Desire,
Thou dearest Image of thy ancient Sire:
Should proud Augusta take thee from me too,
So great a Loss would make Edina bow;
I'd sink beneath a Weight I cou'd not bear,
And in a Heap of Rubbish disappear.

Vain are such Fears; I'll rear my Head in State,
My bodding Heart foretells a glorious Fate:
New stately Structures on new Streets shall rise,
And new-built Churches tow'ring to the Skies.

From utmost Thule to the Dover Rock,
Britain's best Blood in Crowds to me shall flock;
A num'rous Fleet shall be my Fortha's Pride,
While they in her calm Roads at Anchor ride:
These from each Coast shall bring what's Great and Rare,
To animate the Brave, and please the Fair.

Written beneath the Historical Print of the wonderful Preservation of Mr. David Bruce, and others his School-fellows,

St. Andrews, August 19. 1710.

Six Times the Day with Light and Hope arose,
As oft the Night her Terrors did oppose,
While toss'd on roring Waves the tender Crew
Had nought but Death and Horror in their View:
Pale Famine, Seas, bleak Cold at equal Strife,
Conspiring all against their Bloom of Life:
Whilst like the Lamp's last Flame, their trembling Souls
Are on the Wing to leave their mortal Goals;
And Death before them stands with frightful Stare,
Their Spirits spent, and sunk down to despair.

Behold th'indulgent providential Eye,
With watchful Rays descending from on high;
Angels come posting down the Divine Beam
To save the Helpless in their last Extreme:
Unseen the heav'nly Guard about them flock,
Some rule the Winds, some lead them up the Rock,
While other Two attend the dying Pair,
To waft their young white Souls thro' Fields of Air.

CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN,

In Three CANTO'S.

Κονσιδερ ιτ υαριλι ριδ αφτνηρ θαν ενις,,
υιλ ατ εν βλινκ σλι ωοετρι νοτ τεν ις..
Γ. Δυγλας.

CANTO I.

Was ne'er in Scotland heard or seen
Sic Dancing and Deray;
Nowther at Fakland on the Green,
Nor Peebles at the Play,

As was of Woers, as I ween,
At Christ's Kirk on a Day;
There came our Kitties washen clean,
In new Kirtles of Gray,
Fou gay that Day.

To dance these Damesels them dight,
Thir Lasses light of Laits,
Their Gloves were of the Raffel right,
Their Shoon were of the Straits,
Their Kirtles were of Lincome light,
Well prest with mony Plaits,
They were so nice when Men them nicht,
They squeel'd like ony Gaits
Fou loud that Day.

Of all these Maidens mild as Mead,
Was nane sae jimp as Gilly,
As ony Rose her Rude was red,
Her Lire was like the Lilly:
Fou yellow, yellow was her Head,
But she of Love was silly;
Tho a' her Kin had sworn her dead,
She wald have but sweet Willy
Alane that Day.

She scorned Jack, and scraped at him,
And murgeon'd him with Mocks;
He wad have loo'd, she wad na lat him,
For a' his yellow Locks.

He cherisht her, she bade gae chat him,
Counted him not twa Clocks;
Sae shamefully his short Gown set him,
His Legs were like twa Rocks,
Or Rungs that Day.

Tam Lutter was their Minstrel meet,
Good Lord how he cou'd lance,
He play'd sae shill, and sang sae sweet,
While Tousie took a Trance;
Auld Lightfoot there he did forleet,
And counterfeited France:
He us'd himself as Man discreet,
And up the Morice Dance
He took that Day.

Then Steen came steppand in with Stends,
Nae Rink might him arrest:
Plaitfoot did bob with mony Bends,
For Mause he made Request;
He lap till he lay on his Lends,
But risand was sae prest,
While that he hostit at baith Ends,
For honour of the Feast,
And danc'd that Day.

Syne Robin Roy began to revel,
And Dawny to him rugged:
Let be, quoth Jack, and cau'd him Jevel,
And by the Tail him tugged;

The Kensie cleekit to a Cavel,
But Lord as they twa lugged;
They parted manly on a Navel:
Men say that Hair was rugged
Between them twa.

Ane bent a Bow, sic Sturt did steer him,
Great Skaith was't to have scar'd him;
He chesit a Flane as did affear him,
Th'other said, Dirdum, Dardum:
Throw baith the Cheeks he thought to sheer him,
Or throw the Arse have char'd him;
B'ane Akerbraid it came na neer him,
I canna tell what marr'd him
Sae wide that Day.

With that a Friend of his cry'd, Fy,
And up an Arrow drew,
He forged it sae furiously,
The Bow in Flinders flew:
Sae was the Will of God, trow I,
For had the Tree been true,
Men said, wha kend his Archery,
That he had slain anew,
Belyve that Day.

A yap young Man that stood him neist,
Loos'd aff a Shot with Ire,
He etled the Bairn in at the Breast,
The Bolt flew o'er the Bire:

Ane cry'd, Fy, he has slain a Priest,
A Mile beyond a Mire;
Then Bow and Bag frae him he kiest,
And fled as fierce as Fire
Frae Flint that Day.

Ane hasty Hensure, called Hary,
Wha was ane Archer, hynd
Fit up a Tackle withoutten tarry,
That Torment sae him tynd.
I watna whither's Hand cou'd vary,
Or the Man was his Friend;
For he escap'd throw' Mights of Mary,
As ane that nae ill mean'd,
But Good that Day.

Then Laurie like a Lion lap,
And soon a Flane can fedder;
He hecht to pierce him at the Pap,
Thereon to wed a Wedder:
He hit him on the Wame a Wap,
It bufft like ony Bladder;
But sae his Fortune was and Hap,
His Doublet made of Leather
Sav'd him that Day.

The Buff sae boisterously abaist him,
He to the Earth dusht down;
The tither Man for dead there left him,
And fled out of the Town.

The Wives came furth, and up they reft him,
And fand Life in the Lown;
Then with three Routs on's Arse they rais'd him,
And cur'd him out of Sown,
Frae Hand that Day.

With Forks and Flails they lent great Slaps,
And flang together like Frigs;
With Bougers of Barns they beft blew Caps,
While they of Bairns made Brigs.
The Rierd raise rudely with the Raps,
When Rungs were laid on Riggs;
The Wives came furth wi' Crys and Claps,
See where my Liking liggs
Fou low this Day!

They girned and let Gird with Grains,
Ilk Gossip other griev'd:
Some strake with Stings, some gather'd Stains,
Some fled and ill mischiev'd.
The Minstrel wan within twa Wains,
That Day he wisely priev'd;
For he came hame wi' unbruis'd Bains,
Where Fighters were mischiev'd
Fou ill that Day.

Heich Hutchon with a Hisil Rice,
To red can throw them rummil;
He maw'd them down like ony Mice,
He was na Baity Bummil:

Tho he was wight, he was na wise,
With sic Jangleurs to jummil;
For frae his Thumb they dang a Slice,
While he cry'd, Barlafumil,
I'm slain this Day.

When that he saw his Blood sae red,
To flee might nae Man let him;
He ween'd it had been for auld Feed,
He thought and bade have at him;
He gart his feet defend his Head,
The far fairer it set him,
While he was past out of all Plead,
He soud been swift that gat him,
Throw Speed that Day.

The Town Souter in Grief was bowden,
His Wife hang at his Waist,
His Body was with Blood a browden,
He grain'd like ony Ghaist;
Her glittering Hair that was so gowden,
So hard in Love him lac'd,
That for her Sake he was not yowden,
While he a Mile was chac'd,
And mair that Day.

The Miller was of manly Make,
To meet him was nae Mows;
There durst nae tensome there him take,
Sae noyted he their Pows:

The Bushment heal about him brake,
And bickered him wi' Bows;
Syne traitrously behind his Back,
They hew'd him on the Howes,
Behind that Day.

Twa that were Headsmen of the Herd,
On ither ran like Rams,
They follow'd, seeming right unfear'd,
Beat on with Barrow-Trams:
But where their Gabs they were ungear'd,
They gat upon the Gams;
While bloody barkn'd was their Beards,
As they had worried Lambs,
Maist like that Day.

The Wives keist up a hideous Yell,
When all these Yonkiers yoked;
As fierce as Flags of Fire-flaughts fell,
Frieks to the Fields they flocked:
The Carles with Clubs did others quell
On Breasts, while Blood out boaked;
Sae rudly rang the common Bell,
That a' the Steeple rocked
For Dread that Day.

By this Tam Taylor was in's Gear,
When that he heard the Bell,
He said he should make all a steer,
When he came there himsel:
He gaed to fight in sic a Fear,
While to the Ground he fell;
A Wife that hat him on the Ear,
With a great Knocking-mell,
Fell'd him that Day.

When they had bierd like baited Bulls,
And Brain-wood brynt in Bails;
They were as meek as any Mules;
That mangit are with Mails;
For Faintness thae forfoughten Fools
Fell down like flaughter'd Fails;
Fresh Men came in, and hal'd the Dools,
And dang them down in Dails,
Bedeen that Day.

When a' was done, Dick with an Aix,
Came furth to fell a Fiddir,
Quoth he, Where are yon hangit Smaiks,
That wad have slain my Brither?
His wife bad him gae hame Gib Glaicks,
And sae did Meg his Mither;
He turn'd and gave them baith their Paiks,
For he durst ding nae ither,
But them that Day.

CANTO II.

But there had been mair Blood and Skaith,
Sair Harship and great Spulie,
And mony a ane had gotten his Death
By this unsonsie Tooly:
But that the bauld Good-wife of Braith
Arm'd wi' a great Kail Gully,
Came bellyflaught , and loot an Aith,
She'd gar them a' be hooly
Fou fast that Day.

Blyth to win aff sae wi' hale Banes,
Tho mony had clowr'd Pows;
And dragl'd sae 'mang Muck and Stanes,
They look'd like Wirry-kows:
Quoth some, who 'maist had tint their Aynds,
Let's see how a' Bowls rows:
And quat this Brulziement at anes,
Yon Gully is nae Mows,
Forsooth this Day.

Quoth Hutchon , I am well content,
I think we may do war;
Till this Time Toumond I'se indent
Our Claiths of Dirt will sa'r:
Wi' Nevels I'm amaist fawn faint,
My Chafts are dung a char;
Then took his Bonnet to the Bent,
And daddit aff the Glar,
Fou clean that Day.

Tam Taylor , wha in Time of Battle
Lay as gin some had fell'd him;
Gat up now wi' an unco' Rattle,
As nane there durst a quell'd him:
Bauld Bess flew till him wi' a Brattle,
And spite of his Teeth held him
Closs by the Craig, and with her fatal
Knife shored she would geld him,
For Peace that Day.

Syne a' wi' ae Consent shook Hands,
As they stood in a Ring;
Some red their Hair, some set their Bands,
Some did their Sark Tails wring:
Then for a Hap to shaw their Brands,
They did there Minstrel bring,
Where clever Houghs like Willi-wands,
At ilka blythsome Spring
Lap high that Day.

Claud Peky was na very blate,
He stood nae lang a dreigh;
For by the Wame he gripped Kate,
And gar'd her gi'e a Skreigh:
Had aff, quoth she, ye filthy Slate,
Ye stink o' Leeks, O figh!
Let gae my Hands, I say, be quait;
And wow gin she was skeigh,
And mim that Day.

Now settl'd Gossies sat, and keen
Did for fresh Bickers birle;
While the young Swankies on the Green
Took round a merry Tirle:
Meg Wallet wi' her pinky Een,
Gart Lawrie's Heart-strings dirle,
And Fouk wad threep, that she did green
For what wad gar her skirle
And skreigh some Day.

The manly Miller, haff and haff,
Came out to shaw good Will.
Flang by his Mittens and his Staff,
Cry'd, Gi'e me Paty's-Mill;

He lap Bawk-hight , and cry'd, Had aff,
They rus'd him that had Skill;
He wad do't better, quoth a Cawf,
Had he another Gill
Of Usquebae.

Furth started neist a pensy Blade,
And out a Maiden took,
They said that he was Falkland bred,
And danced by the Book;
A souple Taylor to his Trade,
And when their Hands he shook,
Ga'e them what he got frae his Dad,
Videlicet the Yuke,
To claw that Day.

Whan a' cry'd out he did sae weel,
He Meg and Bess did call up;
The Lasses bab'd about the Reel,
Gar'd a' their Hurdies wallop,
And swat like Pownies whan they speel
Up Braes, or when they gallop,
But a thrawn Knublock hit his Heel,
And Wives had him to haul up,
Haff fell'd that Day.

But mony a pauky Look and Tale
Gaed round whan Glowming hous'd them,
The Ostler Wife brought ben good Ale,
And bade the Lasses rouze them;
Up wi' them Lads, and I'se be Bail
They'll loo ye an ye touze them:
Quoth Gawssie, this will never fail
Wi' them that this Gate woes them,
On sic a Day.

Syne Stools and Furms were drawn aside,
And up raise Willy Dadle,
A short Hought Man, but fou o' Pride,
He said the Fidler play'd ill;
Let's ha'e the Pipes, quoth he, beside;
Quoth a', That is nae said ill;
He fits the Floor syne wi' the Bride
To Cuttymun and Treeladle,
Thick, thick that Day.

In the mean Time in came the Laird,
And by some Right did claim,
To kiss and dance wi' Masie Aird,
A dink and dortie Dame:
But O poor Mause was aff her Guard,
For back gate frae her Wame,
Beckin she loot a fearfu' Raird,
That gart her think great Shame,
And blush that Day.

Auld Steen led out Maggie Forsyth,
He was her ain Good-brither;
And ilka ane was unco' blyth,
To see auld Fouk sae clever.
Quoth Jock, wi' laughing like to rive,
What think ye o' my Mither?
Were my Dad dead, let me ne'er thrive
But she wa'd get anither
Goodman this Day.

Tam Lutter had a muckle Dish,
And betwisht ilka Tune,
He laid his Lugs in't like a Fish,
And suckt till it was done;

His Bags were liquor'd to his Wish,
His Face was like a Moon:
But he cou'd get nae Place to pish
In, but his ain twa Shoon,
For Thrang that Day.

The Latter-gae of haly Rhime,
Sat up at the Boord-head,
And a' he said was thought a Crime
To contradict indeed:
For in Clark-Lear he was right prime,
And cou'd baith write and read,
And drank sae firm till ne'er a Styme
He cou'd keek on a Bead,
Or Book that Day.

When he was strute, twa sturdy Chiels,
Be's Oxter and be's Coller,
Held up frae cowping o' the Creels
The liquid Logic Scholar.
When he came hame his Wife did reel,
And rampage in her Choler,
With that he brake the Spining-wheel,
That cost a good Rix-dollar,
And mair some say.

Near Bed-time now ilk weary Wight
Was gaunting for his Rest;
For some were like to tyne their Sight,
Wi' Sleep and Drinking strest.

But ithers that were Stomach-tight,
Cry'd out, It was nae best
To leave a Supper that was dight,
To Brownies , or a Ghaist,
To eat or Day.

On whomelt Tubs lay twa lang Dails,
On them stood mony a Goan,
Some fill'd wi' Brachan, some wi' Kail,
And Milk het frae the Loan.
Of Daintiths they had Routh and Wale,
Of which they were right fon;
But nathing wad gae down but Ale
Wi' drunken Donald Don
The Smith that Day.

Twa Times aught Bannocks in a Heap,
And twa good Junts of Beef,
Wi' hind and fore Spaul of a Sheep,
Drew Whitles frae ilk Sheath:
Wi' Gravie a their Beards did dreep,
They kempit with their Teeth;
A Kebbuck syn that 'maist cou'd creep
Its lane pat on the Sheaf,
In Stous that Day.

The Bride was now laid in her Bed,
Her left Leg Ho was flung;
And Geordie Gib was fidgen glad,
Because it hit Jean Gun:

She was his Jo, and aft had said,
Fy, Geordie, had your Tongue,
Ye's ne'er get me to be your Bride:
But chang'd her Mind when bung,
This very Day.

Tehee , quoth Touzie, when she saw
The Cathel coming ben,
It pypin het gae'd round them a',
The Bride she made a Fen,
To sit in Wylicoat sae braw,
Upon her nether En;
Her Lad like ony Cock did craw,
That meets a Clockin Hen,
And blyth were they.

The Souter, Miller, Smith and Dick,
Lawrie and Hutchon bauld,
Carles that keep nae very strict
Be Hours, tho they were auld;
Nor cou'd they e'er leave aff that Trick,
But whare good Ale was sald,
They drank a' Night, e'en tho auld Nick
Shou'd tempt their Wives to scald
Them for't neist Day.

Was ne'er in Scotland heard or seen
Sic Banqueting and Drinkin,
Sic Revelling and Battles keen,
Sic Dancing, and sic Jinkin,
And unko Wark that fell at E'en,
Whan Lasses were haff winkin,
They lost their Feet and baith their Een,
And Maidenheads gae'd linkin
Aff a' that Day.

CANTO III.

Now frae East Nook of Fife the Daw'n
Speel'd Westlines up the Lift,
Carles wha heard the Cock had craw'n,
Begoud to rax and rift:
And greedy Wives wi' girning Thrawn,
Cry'd, Lasses up to Thrift;
Dogs barked, and the Lads frae Hand
Bang'd to their Breeks like Drift,
Be Break of Day.

But some wha had been fow Yestreen,
Sic as the Latter-gae,
Air up had nae will to be seen,
Grudgin their Groat to pay.
But what aft fristed's no forgeen,
When Fouk has nought to say;
Yet sweer were they to rake their Een,
Sic dizzy Heads had they,
And het that Day.

Be that Time it was fair foor Days,
As fou's the House cou'd pang,
To see the young Fouk or they raise,
Gossips came in ding dang,
And wi' a Soss aboon the Claiths,
Ilk ane their Gifts down flang:
Twall Toop Horn-spoons down Maggy lays,
Baith muckle mow'd and lang,
For Kale or Whey.

Her Aunt a Pair of Tangs fush in,
Right bauld she spake and spruce,
Gin your Goodman shall make a Din,
And gabble like a Goose,
Shorin whan fou to skelp ye're Skin,
Thir Tangs may be of Use;
Lay them enlang his Pow or Shin,
Wha wins syn may make Roose,
Between you twa.

Auld Bessie in her red Coat braw,
Cam wi' her ain Oe Nanny,
An odd like Wife, they said that saw,
A moupin runckled Granny,
She fley'd the Kimmers ane and a',
Word gae'd she was na kanny;
Nor wad they let Lucky awa,
Till she was burnt wi' Branny,
Like mony mae.

Steen fresh and fastin 'mang the rest
Came in to get his Morning,
Speer'd gin the Bride had tane the Test,
And how she loo'd her Corning?
She leugh as she had fun a Nest,
Said, Let a be ye'r Scorning.
Quoth Roger, Fegs I've done my best,
To ge'er a Charge of Horning,
As well's I may.

Kind Kirsh was there, a kanty Lass,
Black-ey'd, black-hair'd, and bonny;
Right well red up and jimp she was,
And Wooers had fow mony:
I wat na how it came to pass,
She cutled in wi' Jonnie,
And tumbling wi' him on the Grass,
Dung a' her Cockernonny
A jee that Day.

But Mause begrutten was and bleer'd,
Look'd thowless, dowf and sleepy;
Auld Maggy kend the Wyt, and sneer'd,
Caw'd her a poor daft Heepy:

It's a wise Wife that kens her Weird,
What tho ye mount the Creepy;
There a good Lesson may be lear'd,
And what the war will ye be
To stand a Day.

Or Bairns can read, they first maun spell,
I learn'd this frae my Mammy,
And coost a Legen-girth my sell,
Lang or I married Tammie:
I'se warrand ye have a' heard tell,
Of bonny Andrew Lammy,
Stifly in Loove wi' me he fell,
As soon as e'er he saw me:
That was a Day.

Hait Drink, frush butter'd Caiks and Cheese,
That held their Hearts aboon,
Wi' Clashes mingled aft wi' Lies,
Drave aff the hale Forenoon:
But after Dinner an ye please,
To weary not o're soon,
We down to E'ning Edge wi' Ease
Shall loup, and see what's done
I' the Doup o' the Day.

Now what the Friends wad fain been at,
They that were right true blue;
Was e'en to get their Wysons wat,
And fill young Roger fou:

But the bauld Billy took his Maut,
And was right stiff to bow;
He fairly ga'e them Tit for Tat,
And scour'd aff Healths anew,
Clean out that Day.

A Creel bout fow of muckle Stains
They clinked on his Back,
To try the Pith o's Rigg and Reins,
They gart him cadge this Pack.
Now as a Sign he had tane Pains,
His young Wife was na slack,
To rin and ease his Shoulder Bains,
And sneg'd the Raips fow snack,
We'er Knife that Day.

Syne the blyth Carles, Tooth and Nail,
Fell keenly to the Wark;
To ease the Gantrees of the Ale,
And try wha was maist stark;
'Till Boord and Floor, and a' did sail,
Wi' spilt Ale i' the Dark;
Gart Jock's Fit slide, he like a Fail,
Play'd dad, and dang the Bark
Aff's Shins that Day.

The Souter, Miller, Smith and Dick,
Et cet'ra, closs sat cockin,
Till wasted was baith Cash and Tick,
Sae ill were they to slocken;

Gane out to pish in Gutters thick,
Some fell, and some gae'd rockin,
Sawny hang sneering on his Stick,
To see bauld Hutchon bockin
Rainbows that Day.

The Smith's Wife her black Deary sought,
And fand him Skin and Birn:
Quoth she, This Day's Wark's be dear bought,
He ban'd, and gae a Girn;
Ca'd her a Jade, and said she mucht
Gae hame and scum her Kirn;
Whisht Ladren, for gin ye say ought
Mair, I'se wind ye a Pirn
To reel some Day.

Ye'll wind a Pirn! Ye silly Snool,
Wae-worth ye'r drunken Saul,
Quoth she, and lap out o'er a Stool,
And claught him be the Spaul:
He shook her, and sware muckle Dool
Ye's thole for this, ye Scaul;
I'se rive frae aff ye'r Hips the Hool,
And learn ye to be baul
On sic a Day.

Your Tippanizing, scant o' Grace,
Quoth she, gars me gang duddy;
Our Nibour Pate sin Break o' Day's
Been thumpin at his Studdy,

An it be true that some Fowk says,
Ye'll girn yet in a Woody;
Syne wi' her Nails she rave his Face,
Made a' his black Baird bloody,
Wi' Scarts that Day.

A Gilpy that had seen the Faught,
I wat he was nae lang,
Till he had gather'd seven or aught
Wild Hempies stout and strang;
They frae a Barn a Kaber raught,
Ane mounted wi' a Bang,
Betwisht twa's Shouders, and sat straught
Upon't, and rade the Stang
On her that Day.

The Wives and Gytlings a' span'd out
O'er Middings, and o'er Dykes,
Wi' mony an unco Skirl and Shout,
Like Bumbees frae their Bykes;
Thro thick and thin they scour'd about,
Plashin thro Dubs and Sykes,
And sic a Reird ran thro the Rout,
Gart a' the hale Town Tykes
Yamph loud that Day.

But d'ye see fou better bred
Was mens-fou Maggy Murdy,
She her Man like a Lammy led
Hame, wi' a well wail'd Wordy:

Fast frae the Company he fled,
As he had tane the Sturdy;
She fleech'd him fairly to his Bed,
Wi' ca'ing him her Burdy,
Kindly that Day.

But Lawrie he took out his Nap
Upon a Mow of Pease,
And Robin spew'd in's ain Wife's Lap;
He said it ga'e him Ease.
Hutchon wi' a three lugged Cap,
His Head bizzin wi' Bees,
Hit Geordy a mislushios Rap,
And brake the Brig o's Neese
Right sair that Day.

Syne ilka Thing gae'd Arse o'er Head,
Chanlers, Boord, Stools and Stowps,
Flew thro' the House wi' muckle speed,
And there was little Hopes,
But there had been some ill done Deed,
They gat sic thrawart Cowps;
But a' the Skaith that chanc'd indeed,
Was only on their Dowps,
Wi' Faws that Day.

Sae whiles they toolied, whiles they drank,
Till a' their Sense was smor'd;
And in their Maws there was nae Mank,
Upon the Furms some snor'd:
Ithers frae aff the Bunkers sank,
Wi' Een like Collops scor'd:
Some ram'd their Noddles wi' a Clank,
E'en like a thick scull'd Lord,
On Posts that Day.

The young Good-man to Bed did clim,
His Dear the Door did lock in;
Crap down beyont him, and the Rim
O' 'er Wame he clap't his Dock on:
She fand her Lad was not in Trim,
And be this same good Token,
That ilka Member, Lith and Limb,
Was souple like a Doken,
'Bout him that Day.

Notwithstanding all this my publick spirited Pains, I am well assured there are a few heavy Heads, who will bring down the Thick of their Cheeks to the Sides of their Mouths, and richly stupid, alledge there's some Things in it have a Meaning. Well, I own it; and think it handsomer in a few Lines to say Something, than talk a great Deal, and mean Nothing. Pray, is there any Thing vicious or unbecoming in saying, Mens Liths and Limbs are souple when intoxicated? Does it not show, that excessive Drinking enervates and unhinges a Man's Constitution, and makes him uncapable of performing divine or natural Duties. There is the Moral. And believe me, I could raise many useful Notes from every Character, which the Ingenious will presently find out.

Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to Faults true Criticks dare not mend;
From vulgar Bounds with brave Disorder part,
And snatch a Grace beyond the Reach of Art.

POPE.

Thus have I pursued these Comical Characters, having Gentlemens Health and Pleasure, and the good Manners of the Vulgar in View: The main Design of Comedy being to represent the Follie and Mistakes of low Life in a just Light, making them appear as ridiculous as they really are, that each who is a Spectator, may evite his being the Object of Laughter. Any Body that has a mind to look sour upon it, may use their Freedom.

Not laugh, Beasts, Fishes, Fowls, nor Reptiles can;
That's a peculiar Happiness of Man:
When govern'd with a prudent chearful Grace,
'Tis one of the first Beauties of the Face.

This Edition of the first Canto is taken from an old Manuscript Collection of Scots Poems written 150 Years ago, where it is found that James, the first of that Name, King of Scots, was the Author; thought to be wrote while that brave and learned Prince was unfortunately kept Prisoner in England by Henry VI. about the Year 1412. Ballenden in his Translation of H. Boece's History, gives this Character of him, He was weil lernit to fecht with the Swerd, to iust, to turnay, to worsyl, to syng and dance, was an expert Medicinar, richt crafty in playing baith of Lute and Harp, and sindry othir Instrumentis of Musik. He was expert in Gramer, Oratry and Poetry, and maid sae flowand and sententious Versis, apperit weil he was ane natural and borne Poete, lib. 16. cap. 16.

In the Shire of Fife where our Kings for some Time had their Residence.

Peebles one of our Royal Burroughs where the Gentlemen of the Shire frequently meet for the Diversion of Horse-Races and the like.

The Place where our Wedding held is either at Lesly (the Church there bearing that Name) or a Place so named a little distant from Windsor where our King was the Time of his Confinement.

Made themselves ready.

Light or wanton in their Manners.

Stuff made at Lincoln.

Ridicul'd him, by a ludicrous manner of aping his Gate or Actions.

She bid him go hang himself.

Reckon'd him not worth a Couple of Beetles.

Two Distaffs. This Description of Gilly's Love to Willy, and her despising Jack, notwithstanding his Affection to her, is drawn with an admirable comick Delicacy.

A Musician fit for them.

He forgot to play the good old Scots Tunes like Auld Lightfoot, and imitated the French, like our modern Minstrels, that dare play nought but Italiano's, for fear they spoil their Fiddles.

The swiftest Course could not stop him.

He chose an Arrow.

A slighting manner of speaking. When one makes a Boast of some Action which we think but meanly of, we readily say, A Dirdum of that.

He design'd his Arrow at the Lad's Breast.

He expresses his missing him, by a Metaphor of a Thunder-bolt flying over the Bire or Cow-house.

Immediately made ready his shooting Tackle.

His Vexation made him angry.

Feathered an Arrow.

He wagered a Wedder he would pierce him at the Pap.

Rafters.

My Sweet-heart lies on the Ground.

Got between two Wains or Wagons, and hid himself.

Or petty Fumbler; An actionless Fellow.

Cry'd, Barley, or, A Parleyfumil, I'm fallen.

Was furnisht with Abundance of Grief. One who has enough of any Thing, we say, He is well bodin.

All besmear'd with Blood. But browden more commonly means forward or fond.

Not tired.

Threw him on his Back by striking on his Hows, i.e. Houghs.

Young Fellows.

Gush'd out.

Being distracted, or Brain-sick.

Wearied and gall'd with their Loading.

Turf that the Country People flea for covering their Houses.

See Lucky Spence, Line 41.

In Heaps a great Deal of them.

Cut down a Fidder, or Load of Wood.

The King having painted the rustick Squabble with an uncommon Spirit, in a most ludicrous Manner, in a Stanza of Verse the most difficult to keep the Sense complete, as he has done, without being forced to bring in Words for Crambo's sake, where they return so frequently:

Ambitious to imitate so great an Original, I put a Stop to the War; called a Congress, and made them sign a Peace, that the World might have their Picture in the more agreeable Hours of Drinking, Dancing, and Singing. The following Canto's were wrote, one in 1715, the other in 1718, about 300 Years after the first. Let no worthy Poet despair of Immortality; good Sense will be always the same in spite of the Revolution of Words.

Came in great Haste, as it were flying full upon them with her Arms spread, as a Falcon with expanded Wings comes soussing upon her Prey.

Desist immediately.

A Bowling-green Phrase, commonly used when People would examine any Affair that's a little ravel'd.

Vide Canto 1. Line 121. He's brave, and the first Man for a honourable Peace.

Vide Canto 1. Line 169. He's a Coward, but would appear valiant when he finds the rest in Peace.

Contributed for fresh Bottles.

Half fuddled.

So high as his Head could strike the Loft, or Joining of the Couples

Been a Journey-man to the King's Taylor, and had seen Court-dancing.

Twilight brought them into the House.

A Tune that goes very quick.

Round, full and shining. When one is staring full of Drink, he's said to have a Face like a full Moon.

The Reader or Church Precenter, who lets go, i.e. Gives out the Tune to be sung by the rest of the Congregation.

A Rarity in those Days.

Pray after the Roman Catholick Manner, which was the Religion then in Fashion.

From turning topsy turvy.

Many whimsical Stories are handed down to us by old Women of these Brownies: They tell us they were a Kind of good drudging Spirits, who appeared in Shape of rough Men, would have lyen familiarly by the Fire all Night, threshen in the Barn, brought a Midwife at a Time, and done many such kind Offices. But none of them has been seen in Scotland since the Reformation, as saith wise John Brown.

A Cheese full of crawling Mites crown'd the Feast.

The Practice of throwing the Bridegroom or the Bride's Stocking when they are going to Bed, is well known: The Person who it lights on is to be next married of the Company.

An Interjection of Laughter.

A hatching Hen.

Curious to know how my Bridal Folks would look next Day after the Marriage, I attempted this third Canto, which opens with a Description of the Morning. Then the Friends come and present their Gifts to the new married Couple. A View is taken of one Girl (Kirsh) who had come fairly off, and of Mause who had stumbled with the Laird. Next a new Scene of Drinking is represented, and the young Good-man is creel'd. Then the Character of the Smith's Ill-natured Shrew is drawn, which leads in the Description of riding the Stang. Next Magy Murdy has an exemplary Character of a good wise Wife. Deep drinking and bloodless Quarrels makes an end of an old Tale.

Where Day must break upon my Company; if, as I have observed, the Scene is at Lesly Church.

Payment of the drunken Groat is very peremptorily demanded by the common People next Morning; but if they frankly confess the Debt due, they are passed for Two-pence.

Rub open their Eyes.

Broad Day Light.

They commonly throw their Gifts of Houshold Furniture above the Bed-cloaths where the young Folks are lying.

It was reported she was a Witch.

I do not mean an Oath of that Name we all have heard of.

Is a Writ charging to make Payment, declaring the Debitor a Rebel. N. B. It may be left in the Lock-hole, if the Doors be shut.

The Stool of Repentance.

Like a Tub thet loses one of its Bottom Hoops.

'Tis a Custom for the Friends to endeavour the next Day after the Wedding to make the new married Man as drunk as possible.

For Merryment, a Creel or Basket is bound, full of Stones, upon his Back; and if he has acted a manly Part, his young Wife with all imaginable Speed cuts the Cords, and relieves him from the Burthen. If she does not, he's rallied for a Fumbler.

Vide Canto II. Line 177.

The Marks of a Sheep; The Burn on the Nose, and the Tar on the Skin. i.e. She was sure it was him, with all the Marks of her drunken Husband about him.

Is a threatning Expression, when one designs to contrive some malicious thing to vex you.

The Riding of the Stang on a Woman that hath beat her Husband, is as I have described it, by one's riding upon a Sting, or a long Piece of Wood, carried by two others on their Shoulders, where, like a Herauld, he proclaims the Woman's Name, and the Manner of her unnatural Action.

A Disease amongst Sheep that makes them giddy, and run off from the rest of the Herd.

THE SCRIBLERS LASH'D.

You write Pindaricks! and be d---nd,
Write Epigrams for Cutlers;
None with thy Nonsense will be sham'd
But Chamber-maids and Butlers.
In t'other World expect dry blows,
No Tears shall wipe thy Stains out:
Horace shall pluck thee by the Nose,
And Pindar beat thy Brains out.
T. Brown to T. D'urfy.

That I thus prostitute my Muse
On Theme so low, may gain Excuse;
When following Motives shall be thought on,
Which has this dogrel Fury brought on.
I'm call'd in Honour to protect
The Fair when tret with Disrespect:
Besides, a Zeal transports my Soul,
Which no Constraint can e'er controul;
In Service of the Government,
To draw my Pen, and Satyr vent,
Against vile Mungrels of Parnassus,
Who through Impunity oppress us.

'Tis to correct this scribbling Crew,
Who, as in former Reigns, so now
Torment the World, and load our Time
With Jargon cloath'd in wretched Rhime,
Disgrace of Numbers! Earth! I hate them!
And as they merit, so I'll treat them.

And first, these ill bred Things I lash,
That hated Authors of the Trash,
In publick spread with little Wit,
Much Malice, rude and bootless Spite,
Against the Sex, who have no Arms
To shield them from insulting Harms,
Except the Light'ning of their Eye,
Which none but such blind Dolts defy.

Ungen'rous War! t'attack the Fair:
But Ladies fear not, ye're the Care
Of every Wit of true Descent,
At once their Song and Ornament:
They'll ne'er neglect the lovely Crowd:
But spite of all the Multitude
Of scribbling Fops, assert your Cause,
And execute Apollo's Laws:
Apollo, who the Bard inspires
With softest Thoughts and divine Fires;
Than whom on all the Earth there's no Man
More complaisant to a fine Woman.
Such Veneration mixt with Love,
Points out a Poet from above:
But Zanny's void of Sense and Merit,
Love, Fire, or Fancy, Wit or Spirit:
Weak, frantick, clownish, and chagreen,
Pretending, prompt by zealous Spleen,
T'affront your Head-dress, or your Bone-fence,
Make Printers Presses groan with Nonsense.
But while Sol's Offspring lives, as soon
Shall they pull down his Sister Moon.

They with low incoherent Stuff,
Dark Sense, or none, Lines lame and rough;
Without a Thought, Air or Address,
All the whole Logerhead confess.
From clouded Notions in the Brain,
They scrible in a cloudy Strain:
Desire of Verse they reckon Wit,
And rhime without one Grain of it.
Then hurry forth in publick Town
Their Scrawls, lest they should be unknown.
Rather than want a Fame, they choose
The Plague of an infamous Muse.
Unthinking, thus the Sots aspire,
And raise their own Reproach the high'r:
By meddling with the Modes and Fashions
Of Women of politest Nations.
Perhaps by this they'd have it told us,
That in their Spirit something bold is,
To challenge those who have the Skill,
By Charms to save, and Frowns to kill.

If not Ambition, then 'tis Spite,
Which makes the puny Insects write.
Like old and mouldy Maids turn'd sour,
When distant Charms have lost their Pow'r,
Fly out in loud Transports of Passion,
When ought that's new comes first in Fashion;
'Till by Degrees it creeps right snodly
On Hips and Head-dress of the g---y.
Thus they to please the sighing Sisters,
Who often beet them in their Misters,
With their malicious Breath set sail,
And write these silly Things they rail.
Pimps! Such as you can ne'er extend
A Flight of Wit, which may amend
Our Morals; that's a Plot too nice
For you to laugh Folks out of Vice.

Sighing, Oh hey! Ye cry, Alace!
This Fardingale's a great Disgrace!
And all indeed, because an Ancle,
Or Foot is seen, might Monarchs mancle;
And makes the Wise, with Face upright,
Look up, and bless Heav'n for their Sight.

In your Opinion nothing matches,
O horrid Sin! the Crime of Patches!
'Tis false, ye Clowns; I'll make't appear,
The glorious Sun does Patches wear:
Yea, run thro' all the Frame of Nature,
You'll find a Patch for ev'ry Creature:
Even you your selves, ye blackned Wretches,
To Heliconians are the Patches.

But grant that Ladies Modes were Ills
To be reform'd; your creeping Skills,
Ye Rhimers, never would succeed,
Who write what the polite ne'er read.
To cure an Error of the Fair,
Demands the nicest prudent Care;
Wit utter'd in a pleasing Strain,
A Point so delicate may gain:
But that's a Task as far above
Your shallow Reach, as I'm from Jove.

No more then let the World be vexed
With Baggage empty and perplexed:
But learn to speak with due Respect
Of Peggie's Breasts and Ivory Neck.
Such purblind Eyes as yours 'tis true,
Shou'd ne'er such divine Beauties view.
If Nellie's Hoop be twice as wide,
As her two pretty Limbs can stride;
What then? Will any Man of Sense
Take Umbrage, or the least Offence,

At what even the most modest may
Expose to Phebus' brightest Ray?
Does not the handsome of our City,
The Pious, Chaste, the Kind and Witty,
Who can afford it, great and small,
Regard well shapen Fardingale?
And will you, Mag-pyes, make a Noise?
You grumble at the Lady's Choice?
Pray leav't to them, and Mothers wise,
Who watch their Conduct, Mein and Guise,
To shape their Weeds as fits their Ease;
And place their Patches as they please.
This shou'd be granted without grudging,
Since we all know they're best at judging,
What from Mankind demands Devotion,
In Gesture, Garb, free Airs, and Motion.
But you! Unworthy of my Pen!
Unworthy to be class'd with Men!
Haste to Caffar, ye clumsy Sots,
And there make Love to Hottentots.

Another Sett with Ballads waste
Our Paper, and debauch our Taste
With endless 'larms on the Street,
Where Crowds of circling Rabble meet.
The Vulgar judge of Poetry,
By what these Hawkers sing and cry:
Yea, some who claim to Wit amiss,
Cannot distinguish That from This.
Hence Poets are accounted now
In Scotland a mean empty Crew;
Whose Heads are craz'd, who spend their Time
In that poor wretched Trade of Rhime.
Yet all the learn'd discerning Part
Of Mankind own the heav'nly Art
Is as much distant from such Trash,
As lay'd Dutch Coin from Sterling Cash.

Others in lofty Nonsense write;
Incomprehensible's their Flight;
Such magick Pow'r is in their Pen,
They can bestow on worthless Men
More Virtue, Merit and Renown,
Than ever they cou'd call their own.
They write with arbitrary Power,
And Pity 'tis they shou'd fall lower;
Or stoop to Truth, or yet to meddle
With common Sense, for Crambo didle.

But none of all the rhiming Herd
Are more encourag'd and rever'd
By heavy Souls to their's ally'd,
Than such who tell who lately dy'd.
No sooner is the Spirit flown,
From its Clay Cage, to Lands unknown,
Than some rash Hackney gets his Name,
And thro' the Town laments the same:
An honest Burgess cannot dy,
But they must weep in Elegy;
Even when the virtuous Soul is soaring
Thro' middle Air, he hears it roaring.

These Ills, and many more Abuses,
Which plague Mankind, and vex the Muses,
On Pain of Poverty shall cease,
And all the Fair shall live in Peace:
And every one shall die contented,
Happy when not by them lamented.
For great Apollo in his Name,
Has ord'red me thus to proclaim:
“Forasmuchas a grov'ling Crew,
“With narrow Mind, and brazen Brow,
“Wou'd fain to Poets Title mount,
“And with vile Maggots rub Affront
“On an old Virtuoso Nation,
“Where our lov'd Nine maintain their Station:

“We order strick, that all refrain
“To write, who Learning want, and Brain;
“Pedants, with Hebrew Roots o'ergrown,
“Learn'd in each Language but their own.
“Each spiritless half starving Sinner,
“Who knows not how to get his Dinner:
“Dealers in small Ware, Clinks, Whim Whams,
“Acrosticks, Puns, and Anagrams;
“And all who their Productions grudge,
“To be canvast by skilful Judge,
“Who can find out indulgent Trip,
“Whilst 'tis in harmless Manuscript.
“But to all them who disobey,
“And jog on still in their own Way;

“Be't kend to all Men that our Will is,
“Since all they write so wretched ill is;
“They must dispatch their shallow Ghosts,
“To Pluto's Jakes, and take their Posts;
“There to attend, 'till Dis shall deign
“To use their Works; the Use is plain.

Now know, ye Scoundrels, if ye stand
To humph and ha at this Command,
The Furies have prepar'd a Halter,
To hang, or drive ye helter skelter,
Through Bogs and Moors, like Rats and Mice,
Pursu'd with Hunger, Rags and Lice,
If e'er ye dare again to croak,
And God of Harmony provoke.
Wherefore pursue some Craft for Bread,
Where Hands may better serve than Head;
Nor ever hope in Verse to shine,
Or share in Homer's Fate or ---.

Oblige them upon Occasion.

CONTENT.

A POEM.

Content is Wealth, the Riches of the Mind;
And happy he who can that Treasure find:
But the base Miser starves amidst his Store,
Broods on his Gold, and gripping still for more,
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.
Dryden.

Virtue was taught in Verse, and Athens' Glory rose. Prior.

When genial Beams wade thro' the dewy Morn,
And from the Clod invite the sprouting Corn;
When chequer'd Green, wing'd Musick, new blown Scents,
Conspir'd to sooth the Mind, and please each Sense:
Then down a shady Haugh I took my Way,
Delighted with each Flower and budding Spray;
Musing on all that Hurry, Pain and Strife,
Which flow from the phantastick Ills of Life.
Enlarg'd from such Distresses of the Mind,
Due Gratitude to Heav'n my Thoughts refin'd,
And made me in the laughing Sage's Way,
As a mere Farce the murm'ring World survey;
Finding imagin'd Maladies abound,
Tenfold for one, which gives a real Wound.

Godlike is he whom no false Fears annoy,
Who lives content, and grasps the present Joy;
Whose Mind is not with wild Convulsions rent
Of Pride, and Avarice, and Discontent:
Whose well train'd Passions, with a pious Aw,
Are all subordinate to Reason's Law:
Then smooth Content arises like the Day,
And makes each rugged Phantom fly away.
To lowest Men she gives a lib'ral Share
Of solid Bliss, she mitigates our Care,
Enlarging Joys, administrating Health;
The rich Man's Pleasure, and the poor Man's Wealth;
A Train of Comforts on her Nod attend,
And to her Sway Profits and Honours bend.

Hail blest Content! who art by Heav'n design'd
Parent of Health and Chearfulness of Mind;
Serene Content shall animate my Song,
And make the immortal Numbers smooth and strong.

Silenus, thou whose hoary Beard and Head
Experience speak, and Youth's Attention plead;
Retail thy gather'd Knowledge, and disclose
What State of Life enjoys the most Repose.
Thus I addrest:—And thus the ancient Bard;—
First, to no State of Life fix thy Regard.
All Mortals may be happy, if they please,
Nor rack'd with Pain, nor lingering Disease.

Midas the Wretch, wrapt in his patched Rags,
With empty Paunch, sits brooding o'er his Bags;
Meager his Look, his Mind in constant Fright,
If Winds but move his Windows in the Night;
If Dogs should bark, or but a Mouse make Din,
He sweats and starts, and thinks the Thief's got in:
His Sleep forsakes him 'till the Dawn appears,
Which every Thing but such a Caitiff chears;

It gives him Pain to buy a Farthing-Light,
He jums at Home in Darkness all the Night.
What makes him manage with such cautious Pain?
'Twould break a Sum; a Farthing spent so vain!
If e'er he's pleased, 'tis when some needful Man
Gives Ten per Cent with an insuring Pawn,
Tho he's provided in as much would serve
Whole Nestor's Years, he ever fears to starve.
Tell him of Alms, alas! he'd rather chuse
Damnation and the promis'd Bliss refuse.
—And is there such a Wretch beneath the Sun—?
Yes, he return'd, Thousands instead of one,
To whom Content is utterly unknown.—
Are all the rich Men such?—He answer'd, No;
Marcus hath Wealth, and can his Wealth bestow
Upon himself, his Friends, and on the Poor,
Enjoys enough, and wishes for no more.

Reverse of these, is he who braves the Skie,
Cursing his Maker when he throws the Die:
Gods, Devils, Furies, Hell, Heaven, Blood and Wounds,
Promiscuous fly in Bursts of tainted Sounds:
He to Perdition doth his Soul bequeath,
Yet inly trembles when he thinks of Death.
Except at Game, he ne'er employs his Thought
Till hiss'd and pointed at,—not worth a Groat.
The desp'rate Remnant of a large Estate
Goes at one Throw, and points his gloomy Fate;
He finds his Folly now, but finds too late.
Ill brooks my fondling Master to be poor,
Bred up to nought but Bottle, Game, and Whore.
How pitiful he looks without his Rent!
They who fly Vertue, ever fly Content.

Now I beheld the Sage look'd less severe,
Whilst Pity join'd his old Satyrick Lear.
The weakly Mind, said he, is quickly torn,
Men are not Gods, some Frailties must be born:

Heaven's bounteous Hand all in their Turn abuse,
The happiest Men at Times their Fate refuse,
Befool themselves,—and trump up an Excuse.

Is Lucius but a Subaltern of Foot?
His Equal Gallus is a Coronet.

Sterilla shuns a Gossiping, and why?
The teeming Mother fills her with Envy.
The pregnant Matron's Grief as much prevails,
Some of the Children always something ails:
One Boy is sick, t'other has broke his Head,
And Nurse is blam'd when little Miss is dead.

A Dutchess on a Velvet Couch reclin'd,
Blabs her fair Cheeks till she is almost blind;
Poor Phili's Death the briny Pearls demands,
Who ceases now to snarl and lick her Hands.

The Politicians, who in learn'd Debates,
With Penetration carve out Kingdoms Fates,
Look sour, drink Coffee, shrug, and read Gazettes:
Deep sunk in Craft of State their Souls are lost,
And all their Hopes depend upon the Post:
Each Mail that's due they curse the contrair Wind,
'Tis strange if this Way Men Contentment find.
Tho old, their Humors I am yet to learn,
Who vex themselves in what they've no Concern.

Ninny the glaring Fop, who always runs
In Tradesmen's Books, which makes the careful Duns
Often e'er Ten to break his slumb'ring Rest:
Whilst with their craving Clamours he's opprest,
He frames Excuses 'till his Cranny akes,
Then thinks he justly damns the cursed Snakes.
The disappointed Dun with as much Ire,
Both threats and curses till his Breast's on Fire:
Then home he goes, and pours it on his House,
His Servants suffer oft, and oft his Spouse.

Some groan thro' Life amidst a Heap of Cares,
To load with too much Wealth their lazy Heirs:
The lazy Heir turns all to Ridicule,
And all his Life proclaims his Father Fool.
He toils in spending.—Leaves a Threed-bare Son,
To scrape anew, as had his Grandsire done.

How is the fair Myrtilla's Bosom fir'd,
If Leda's sable Locks are more admir'd;
While Leda does her secret Sighs discharge,
Because her Mouth's a Straw-breadth, ah! too large.

Thus sung the Sire, and left me to evite
The scorching Beams in some cool green Retreat;
Where gentle Slumber seiz'd my weary'd Brain,
And mimick Fancy op'd the following Scene.

Methought I stood upon a rising Ground,
A splendid Landskip open'd all around,
Rocks, Rivers, Meadows, Gardens, Parks and Woods,
And Domes, which hid their Turrets in the Clouds;
To me approach'd a Nymph divinely fair,
Celestial Virtue shone through all her Air:
A Nymph for Grace, her Wisdom more renown'd
Adorn'd each Grace, and both true Valour crown'd.
Around her heav'nly Smiles a Helmet blaz'd,
And graceful as she mov'd, a Spear she gently rais'd.
My Sight at first the Lustre scarce could bear,
Her dazling Glories shone so strong and clear:
A Majesty sublime, with all that's sweet,
Did Adoration claim, and Love invite.
I felt her Wisdom's Charm my Thoughts inspire,
Her dauntless Courage set my Soul on Fire.
The Maid, when thus I knew, I soon addrest,
My present wishful Thoughts the Theme suggest:
“Of all th'etherial Powers thou noblest Maid,
“To humane Weakness lend'st the readiest Aid:

“To where Content and her blest Train reside,
“Immortal Pallas, deign to be my Guide.
With my Request well pleas'd, our Course we bent,
To find the Habitation of Content.

Thro' fierce Bellona's Tents we first advanc'd,
Where Cannons bounc'd, and nervous Horses pranc'd:
Here Vi & Armis sat with dreadful Aw
And daring Front, to prop each Nation's Law:
Attending Squadrons on her Motions wait,
Array'd in Deaths, and fearless of their Fate.
Here Chiftain Souls glow'd with as great a Fire,
As his who made the World but one Empire.
Even in low Ranks brave Spirits might be found,
Who wanted nought of Monarchs but a Crown.
But ah! Ambition stood a Foe to Peace,
Shaking the Empty Fob and ragged Fleece;
Which were more hideous to these Sons of War,
Than Brimstone, Smoak, and Storms of Bullets are.
Here, said my Guide, Content is rarely found,
Where Blood and noisy Jars beset the Ground.

Trade's wealthy Ware-house next fell in our Way,
Where in great Bales Part of each Nation lay,
The Spanish Citron, and Hesperia's Oil,
Persia's soft Product, and the Chinese Toil;
Warm Borneo's Spices, Arab's scented Gum,
The Polish Amber, and the Saxon Mum,
The Orient Pearl, Holland's Lace and Toys,
And Tinsie Work, which the fair Nun imploys.
From India Ivory, and the clouded Cane,
And Coacheneal from Straits of Magellan.
The Scandinavian Rosin, Hemp and Tar,
The Lapland Furs, and Russia's Caviare,
The Gallick Punchion charg'd with Ruby Juice,
Which makes the Hearts of Gods and Men rejoice.
Britannia here pours from her plenteous Horn,
Her shining Mirrors, Clock-work, Cloaths and Corn.

Here Cent per Cents sat poring o'er their Books,
While many shew'd the Bankrupts in their Looks,
Who by Mismanagement their Stock had spent,
Curs'd these hard Times, and blam'd the Government.
The Missive Letter, and peremptor Bill,
Forbade them rest, and call'd forth all their Skill.
Uncertain Credit bore the Sceptre here,
And her prime Ministers were Hope and Fear.
The surly Chufs demanded what we sought,
Content, said I, may she with Gold be bought?
Content! said one, then star'd and bit his Thumb,
And leering ask'd, if I was worth a Plum.

Love's fragrant Fields, where mildest western Gales,
Loaden with Sweets, perfume the Hills and Dales;
Where longing Lovers haunt the Streams and Glades,
And cooling Groves, whose Verdure never fades;
Thither with Joy and hasty Steps we strode,
There sure I thought our long'd for Bliss abode.
Whom first we met on that enchanted Plain,
Was a tall Yellow-hair'd young pensive Swain;
Him I addrest,—“O Youth, what heavenly Power
“Commands and graces yon Elysian Bower?
“Sure 'tis Content, else much I am deceiv'd.
The Shepherd sigh'd, and told me that I rav'd.
Rare she appears, unless on some fine Day
She grace a Nuptial, but soon hasts away:
If her you seek, soon hence you must remove,
Her Presence is precarious in Love.

Thro' these and other Shrines we wander'd long,
Which merit no Description in my Song:
'Till at the last, methought we cast our Eye
Upon an antique Temple, square and high,
Its Area wide, its Spire did pierce the Sky;

On adamantine Dorick Pillars rear'd,
Strong Gothick Work the massy Pile appear'd:
Nothing seem'd little, all was great design'd,
Which pleas'd the Eye at once, and fill'd the Mind.
Whilst Wonder did my curious Thoughts engage,
To us approach'd a studious rev'rend Sage:
Both Aw and Kindness his grave Aspect bore,
Which spoke him rich with Wisdom's finest Store.
He ask'd our Errand there,—“Straight, I reply'd,
“Content; in these high Towers does she reside?
Not far from hence, said he, her Palace stands,
Ours she regards, as we do her Demands,
Philosophy sustains her peaceful Sway,
And in Return she feasts us every Day.
Then straight an antient Telescope he brought,
By Socrates and Epictetus wrought,
Improved since, made easier to the Sight,
Lengthen'd the Tube, the Glasses ground more bright:
Through this he shew'd a Hill, whose lofty Brow
Enjoy'd the Sun, while Vapours all below,
In pitchy Clouds, encircled it around,
Where Phantoms of most horrid Forms abound;
The ugly Brood of lazy Spleen and Fear,
Frightful in Shape, most monstrous appear.
Then thus my Guide,—
Your Way lies through yon Gloom, be not agast,
Come briskly on, you'll jest them when they're past:
Mere empty Spectres, harmless as the Air,
Which merit not your Notice, less your Care.
Encourag'd with her Word, I thus addrest
My noble Guide, and grateful Joy exprest.
“O sacred Wisdom! Thine's the Source of Light,
“Without thy Blaze the World would grope in Night.
“Of Woe and Bliss thou only art the Test,
“Falshood and Truth before thee stand confest:
“Thou mak'st a double Life: One Nature gave,
“But without thine, what is it Mortals have?
“A breathing Motion grazing to the Grave.

Now through the Damps methought we boldly went,
Smiling at all the Grins of Discontent:
Tho oft pull'd back, the rising Ground we gain'd,
Whilst inward Joy my weary'd Limbs sustain'd.
Arriv'd the Height, whose Top was large and plain,
And what appear'd soon recompens'd my Pain,
Nature's whole Beauty deck'd the enamell'd Scene.

Amidst the Glade the sacred Palace stood,
The Architecture not so fine as good;
Nor scrimp, nor gousty, regular and plain,
Plain were the Columns which the Roof sustain:
An easy Greatness in the whole was found,
Where all that Nature wanted did abound.
But here no Beds are screen'd with rich Brocade,
Nor Fewel-Logs in Silver Grates are laid:
No broken China Bowls disturb the Joy
Of waiting Handmaid, or the running Boy;
Nor in the Cupboard Heaps of Plate are rang'd,
To be with each splenetick Fashion chang'd.

A weather-beaten Sentry watch'd the Gate,
Of Temper cross, and practis'd in Debate:
Till once acquaint with him, no Entry here,
Tho brave as Cæsar, or as Helen fair:
To Strangers fierce, but with Familiars tame,
And Touchstone Disappointment was his Name.

This fair Inscription shone above the Gate,
Fear not but him whose Will directs thy Fate.
With Smile austere he lifted up his Head,
Pointed the Characters and bid us read.
We did, and stood resolv'd. The Gates at last
Op'd of their own Accord, and in we past.

Each Day a Herauld, by the Queen's Command,
Was order'd on a Mount to take his Stand,

And thence to all the Earth this Offer make,
“Who are inclin'd her Favours to partake,
“Shall have them free, if they small Rubs can bear
“Of Disappointment, Spleen and bug-bear Fear.

Rais'd on a Throne within the outer Gate,
The Goddess sat, her Vot'ries round her wait:
The beautiful Divinity disclos'd
Sweetness sublime, which roughest Cares compos'd:
Her looks sedate, yet joyful and serene,
Not rich her Dress, but suitable and clean:
Unfurrow'd was her Brow, her Cheeks were smooth,
Tho old as Time, enjoy'd immortal Youth;
And all her Accents so harmonious flow'd,
That ev'ry listning Ear with Pleasure glow'd.

An Olive Garland on her Head she wore,
And her right Hand a Cornucopia bore.
Cross Touchstone fill'd a Bench without the Door,
To try the Sterling of each humane Ore:
Grim Judge he was, and them away he sent,
Unfit t'approach the Shrine of calm Content.

To him a hoary Dotard load with Bags:
Unweildy Load! to one who hardly drags
His Being.—More than Seventy Years, said he,
I've sought this Court, 'till now unfound by me:
Now let me rest,—“Yes, if ye want no more;
“But e'er the Sun has made his annual Tour,
“Know, grov'ling Wretch, thy Wealth's without thy Pow'r.
The Thoughts of Death, and ceasing from his Gain,
Brought on the old Man's Head so sharp a Pain,
Which dim'd his optick Nerves, and with the Light
He lost the Palace, and crawl'd back to Night.

Poor gripping Thing, how useless is thy Breath,
While nothing's so much long'd for as thy Death?
How meanly hast thou spent thy Lease of Years?
A Slave to Poverty, to Toils and Fears;

100

And all to vie with some black rugged Hill,
Whose rich Contents Millions of Chests can fill.
As round the greedy Rock clings to the Mine,
And hinders it in open Day to shine,
Till Diggers hew it from the Spar's Embrace,
Making it circle, stampt with Cæsar's Face;
So dost thou hoard, and from thy Prince purloin
His useful Image, and thy Country Coin,
Till gaping Heirs have free'd th'imprison'd Slave,
When to their Comfort thou hast fill'd a Grave.

The next who with a janty Air approach'd,
Was a gay Youth, who thither had been coach'd:
Sleek were his Flanders Mares, his Liv'ries fine,
With glittering Gold his Furniture did shine.
Sure such methought may enter when they please,
Who have all these Appearances of Ease.
Strutting he march'd, nor any Leave he crav'd,
Attemp't to pass, but found himself deceiv'd:
Old Touchstone gave him on the Breast a Box,
Which op'd the Sluces of a latent Pox,
Then bid his Equipage in Haste depart.
The Youth look'd at them with a fainting Heart;
He found he could not walk, and bid them stay,
Swore three cramp Oaths, mounted and wheel'd away.

The Pow'r express'd herself thus with a Smile,
“These changing Shadows are not worth our while;
“With smallest Trifles oft their Peace is torn,
“If here at Night, they rarely wait the Morn.

Another Beau as fine, but more vivace,
Whose Airs sat round him with an easy Grace,
And well bred Motion, came up to the Gate,
I lov'd him much, and trembl'd for his Fate.
The Sentry broke his clouded Cane,—He smil'd,
Got fairly in, and all our Fears beguil'd.

101

The Cane was soon renew'd which had been broke,
And thus the Vertue to the Circle spoke,
“Each Thing magnificent or gay we grant,
“To them who're capable to bear their Want.

Two handsome Toasts came next, them well I knew,
Their lovely Make the Court's Observance drew;
Three waiting Maids attended in the Rear,
Each loaden with as much as she could bear:
One mov'd beneath a Load of Silks and Lace,
Another bore the Offsets of the Face;
But the most bulky Burden of the Three,
Was hers who bore the Utensils of Bohee.
My Mind indulgent in their Favour pled,
Hoping no Opposition would be made:
So mannerly, so smooth, so mild their Eye,
Enough almost to give Content Envy.
But soon I found my Error, the bold Judge,
Who acted as if prompted by some Grudge,
Them thus saluted with a hollow Tone,
“You're none of my Acquaintance, get you gone;
“What Loads of Trump'ry these?—Ha, where's my Cross?
“I'll try if these be solid Ware or boss,
The China felt the Fury of his Blow,
And lost a Being, or for Use or Show;
For Use or Show no more's each Plate or Cup,
But all in Shreds upon the Threshold drop.
Now every Charm which deck'd their Face before,
Give Place to Rage, and Beauty is no more.
The brinny Stream their rosy Cheeks besmear'd,
Whilst they in Clouds of Vapours disappear'd.

A rustick Hynd, attir'd in home-spun Gray,
With forked Locks, and Shoes bedaub'd with Clay;
Palms shod with Horn, his Front fresh, brown and broad,
With Legs and Shoulders fitted for a Load;
He 'midst ten bawling Children laugh'd and sung,
While Consort Hobnails on the Pavement rung:

102

Up to the Porter unconcern'd he came,
Forcing along his Offspring and their Dame.
Cross Touchstone strove to stop him, but the Clown
At Handy-cuffs him match'd, and threw him down;
And spite of him into the Palace went,
Where he was kindly welcom'd by Content.

Two Busbian Philosophs put in their Claims,
Gamaliel and Critis were their Names;
But soon's they had our British Homer seen,
With Face unruffl'd waiting on the Queen,
Envious Hate their surly Bosoms fir'd,
Their Colour chang'd, they from the Porch retir'd:
Backward they went, reflecting with much Rage
On the bad Taste and Humor of the Age,
Which pay'd so much Respect to nat'ral Parts,
While they were starving Graduates of Arts.
The Goddess fell a laughing at the Fools,
And sent them packing to their Grammar Schools;
Or in some Garret elevate to dwell,
There with Sisyphian Toil to teach young Beaus to spell.

Now all this while a Gale of Eastern Wind,
And cloudy Skies opprest the humane Mind;
The Wind set West, back'd with the radiant Beams,
Which warm'd the Air, and danc'd upon the Streams,
Exhal'd the Spleen, and sooth'd a World of Souls,
Who crowded now the Avenue in Shoals.
Numbers in black, of Widowers, Relicts, Heirs,
Of new wed Lovers many handsome Pairs;
Men landed from Abroad, from Camps and Seas;
Others got through some dangerous Disease:
A Train of Belles adorn'd with something new,
And even of ancient Prudes there were a few,
Who were refresh'd with Scandal and with Tea,
Which for a Space set them from Vapours free.
Here from their Cups the lower Species flockt,
And Knaves with Bribes and cheating Methods stockt.

103

The Pow'r survey'd the Troop, and gave command
They should no longer in the Entry stand,
But be convey'd into Chimera's Tower,
There to attend her Pleasure for an Hour.

Soon as they entred, Apprehension shook
The Fabrick: Fear was fixt on every Look,
Old Age and Poverty, Disease, Disgrace,
With horrid Grin, star'd full in every Face,
Which made them, trembling at their unknown Fate,
Issue in Haste out by the postern Gate.

None waited out their Hour but only two,
Who had been wedded Fifteen Years ago.
The Man had learn'd the World, and fixt his Mind;
His Spouse was chearful, beautiful and kind:
She neither fear'd the Shock, nor Phantoms Stare:
She thought her Husband wise, and knew that he was there.
Now while the Court was sitting, my fair Guide
Into a fine Elysium me convey'd;
I saw, or thought I saw the spacious Fields
Adorn'd with all prolifick Nature yields,
Profusely rich, with her most valu'd Store:
But as m' enchanted Fancy wander'd o'er
The happy plain, new Beauties seem'd to rise,
The Fields were fled, and all was painted Skies.
Pleas'd for a while, I wish'd the former Scene;
Straight all return'd and eas'd me of my Pain.
Again the flow'ry Meadows disappear,
And Hills and Groves their stately Summits rear;
These sink again, and rapid Rivers flow,
Next from the Rivers Cities seem to grow.

Sometime the fleeting Scene I had forgot,
In busie Thought intranc'd, with Pain I sought
To know the hidden Charm, straight all was fled
And boundless Heav'ns o'er boundless Ocean spread;

104

Impatient I obtest my noble Guide,
Reveal this wond'rous Secret, she reply'd.

We carried on what greatly we design'd,
When all these humane Follies you resign'd,
Ambition, Lux'ry, and a cov'tous Mind:
Yet think not true Content can thus be bought,
There's wanting still a Train of virtuous Thought.

When me your Leader prudently you chose,
And listning to my Counsel, didst refuse
Fantastick Joys, your Soul was thus prepar'd
For true Content; and thus I do reward
Your gen'rous Toil. Observe this wondrous Clime;
Of Nature's Blessings here are hid the Prime:
But wise and virtuous Thought in constant Course,
Must draw these Beauties from their hidden Source;
The smallest Intermissions will transform
The pleasant Scene, and spoil each perfect Charm.
'Tis ugly Vice will rob you of Content,
And to your View all hellish Woes present.
Nor grudge the Care in Vertue you employ,
Your present Toil will prove your future Joy.
Then smil'd she heav'nly sweet, and parting said,
Hold fast your virtuous Mind, of nothing be afraid.

A while the charming Voice so fill'd my Ears,
I grieve the divine Form no more appears.
Then to confirm my yet unsteady Mind,
Under a lonely Shadow I reclin'd,
To try the Virtues of the Clime I sought:
Then straight call'd up a Train of hideous Thought,
Famine, and Blood, and Pestilence appear,
Wild Shrieks and loud Laments disturb mine Ear;
New Woes and Horrors did my Sight alarm.
Envy and Hate compos'd the wretched Charm.

105

Soon as I saw, I dropt the hateful View,
And thus I sought past Pleasures to renew.
To heav'nly Love my Thoughts I next compose,
Then quick as thought the following Sigh[t]s disclose:
Streams, Meadows, Grotto's, Groves, Birds carrolling,
Calmness, and temp'rate Warmth, and endless Spring;
A perfect Transcript of these upper Bowers,
The Habitation of th'immortal Powers.

Back to the Palace ravished I went,
Resolved to reside with blest Content,
Where all my special Friends methought I met,
In Order 'mongst the best of Mankind set:
My Soul with too much Pleasure overcharg'd,
The captiv'd Senses to their Post enlarg'd:
Lifting mine Eyes I view'd declining Day,
Sprang from the Green, and homeward bent my Way,
Reflecting on that Hurry, Pain and Strife
Which flow from false and real Ills of Life.

Democritus.

100,000 Lib.

106

RICHY and SANDY ,

A PASTORAL On the Death of JOSEPH ADDISON, Esq;

RICHY.
What gars thee look sae dowf, dear Sandy, say?
Chear up dull Fallow, take thy Reed and play,
My Apron Deary,—or some wanton Tune:
Be merry Lad, and keep thy Heart aboon.

SANDY.
Na, na, It winna do! Leave me to mane,
This aught Days twice o'er tell'd I'll whistle nane.

107

RICHY.
Wow Man, that's unco' sad,—Is that ye'r Jo
Has ta'en the Strunt?—Or has some Bogle-bo
Glowrin frae 'mang auld Waws gi'en ye a Fleg?
Or has some dawted Wedder broke his Leg?

SANDY.
Naithing like that, sic Troubles eith were born,
What's Bogles,—Wedders,—or what's Mausy's Scorn?
Our loss is meikle mair, and past Remeed,
Edie, that play'd, and sang sae sweet, is dead.

RICHY.
Dead, say'st thou; Oh! Had up my Heart O Pan!
Ye Gods! What Laids ye lay on feckless Man!
Alake therefore, I canna wyt ye'r Wae,
I'll bear ye Company for Year and Day.

108

A better Lad ne'er lean'd out o'er a Kent,
Or hounded Coly o'er the mossy Bent:
Blyth at the Bought how aft ha' we three been,
Heartsome on Hills, and gay upon the Green.

SANDY.
That's true indeed! But now thae Days are gane,
And with him a' that's pleasant on the Plain.
A Summer Day I never thought it lang
To hear him make a Roundel or a Sang.
How sweet he sung where Vines and Myrtles grow,
Of wimpling Waters which in Latium flow.
Titry the Mantuan Herd wha lang sinsyne
Best sung on aeten Reed the Lover's Pine,
Had he been to the fore now in our Days,
Wi' Edie he had frankly dealt his Bays.
As lang's the Warld shall Amaryllis ken,
His Rosamond shall eccho thro' the Glen;

109

While on Burn Banks the yellow Gowan grows,
Or wand'ring Lambs rin bleeting after Ews,
His Fame shall last: last shall his Sang of Weirs,
While British Bairns brag of their bauld Forbears.
We'll mickle miss his blyth and witty Jest
At Spaining Time, or at our Lambmass Feast.
O, Richy, but 'tis hard that Death ay reaves
Away the best Fowck, and the ill anes leaves.
Hing down ye'r Heads ye Hills, greet out ye'r Springs.
Upon ye'r Edge na mair the Shepherd sings.

RICHY.
Than he had ay a good Advice to gi'e,
And kend my Thoughts amaist as well as me;
Had I been thowless, vext, or oughtlins sow'r,
He wad have made me blyth in haff an Hour.
Had Rosie ta'en the Dorts,—or had the Tod
Worry'd my Lamb,—or were my Feet ill shod,

110

Kindly he'd laugh when sae he saw me dwine,
And tauk of Happiness like a Divine.
Of ilka Thing he had an unco' Skill,
He kend be Moon Light how Tides ebb and fill.
He kend, what kend he no? E'en to a Hair
He'd tell o'er Night gin neist Day wad be fair.
Blind John , ye mind, wha sang in kittle Phrase,
How the ill Sp'rit did the first Mischief raise;
Mony a Time beneath the auld birk-tree,
What's bonny in that Sang he loot me see.
The Lasses aft flang down their Rakes and Pales,
And held their Tongues, O strange! to hear his Tales.

SANDY.
Sound be his Sleep, and saft his Wak'ning be,
He's in a better Case than thee or me;
He was o'er good for us; the Gods hae ta'en
Their ain but back,—he was a borrow'd Len.

111

Let us bed, gin goo Virtue be our Drift,
Then may we yet forgether 'boon the Lift.
But see the Sheep are wysing to the Cleugh;
Thomas has loos'd his Ousen frae the Pleugh;
Maggy by this has bewk the Supper-Scones,
And nuckle Kye stand rowting on the Loans:
Come, Richy, let us truse and hame o'er bend,
And make the best of what we canna mend.

Sir Richard Steel and Mr. Alexander Pope.

His Poetick Epistle from Italy to the Earl Halifax.

An Opera wrote by him.

His Campaign; An heroick Poem.

The famous Mr. Milton, the Author of the excellent Poem on Paradice lost, was blind.

106

An Explanation of Richy and Sandy,
by Josiah Burchet, Esq;

RICHY.
What makes thee look so sad? dear Sandy say.
Rouse up dull Fellow, take thy Reed and play
A merry Jig, or try some other Art,
To raise thy Spirits, and cheer up thy Heart.

SANDY.
No, no, it will not do! Leave me to moan,
Till twice eight Days are past I'll whistle none.

107

RICHY.
That's strange indeed! Has Jenny made the[e] sad?
Or, tell me, hath some horrid Spectre, Lad,
(Glaring from Ruins old, in silent Night)
Surpriz'd, and put thee in a panic Fright?
Or ails that Wedder ought, thy Favourite?

SANDY.
Such Troubles might with much more Ease be born:
What's Goblins, Wedders, or what's Woman's Scorn?
Our Loss is greater far; for Addy's dead,
Addy, who sang so sweetly on the Mead.

RICHY.
Dead is he, say'st thou? Guard my Heart, oh Pan!
What Burthens, Gods, ye lay on feeble Man!
Alack I cannot blame thee for thy Grief;
Nor hope I, more than thou, to find Relief.

108

A better Lad ne'er lean'd on Shepherd's Crook,
Nor after Game halloo'd his Dog to look,
How glad where Ews give Milk have we three been,
Merry on Hills, and gay upon the Green!

SANDY.
That's true indeed; but now, alas! in vain
We seek for Pleasure on the rural Plain:
I never thought a Summer's Day too long
To hear his Couplets, or his tuneful Song.
How sweet he sang where Vines and Myrtles grow,
And winding Streams which in old Latium flow!
Titry, the Mantuan Herd, who long ago
Sang best on Oaten Reed the Lover's Woe,
Did he, fam'd Bard, but live in these our Days,
He would with Addy freely share his Bays.
As long as Shepherds Amaryllis hear,
So long his Rosamond shall please the Ear.

109

While spangled Daisie near the Riv'let grows,
And tender Lambs seek after bleating Ews,
His Fame shall last. Last shall his Song of Wars,
While British Youngsters boast of Ancestors.
Much shall we miss his merry witty Jests,
At weaning Times, and at our Lambmass Feasts.
Oh Richy! Richy! Death hath been unkind
To take the Good, and leave the Ill behind.
Bow down your Heads ye Hills, weep dry your Springs,
For on their Banks no more the Shepherd sings.

RICHY.
Then he had always good Advice to give,
And could my Thoughts, like as my self, conceive.
When I've been drooping, vex'd, or in the Spleen,
In one half Hour with him I've merry been.
Had Jenny froward been, or Raynard bold
Worry'd my Lamb, or were my Shoes grown old;

110

Kindly he'd smile, when he observ'd me grieve,
And by his Talk divine my Breast relieve.
Addy did all Things to Perfection know;
Saw by the Moon how Tides would ebb or flow.
He knew, what knew he not? E'en to a Hair
He'd tell o'er Night if next Day would be fair.
The fam'd blind Bard sang in mysterious Phrase
How envious Satan did first Mischief raise;
But oft beneath the well-spread Birchen-Tree
The Beauties of that Song he made me see.
The Lasses oft flung down their Rakes and Pales,
And held their Tongues, Oh strange! to hear his Tales.

SANDY.
Sound be his Sleep, and soft his Waking be;
More happy is he far than thee or me:
Too good he was for us; the Gods but lent
Him here below, when hither he was sent.

111

Let us be good, if Virtue be our Aim,
Then we may meet above the Skies again.
But see how tow'rds the Glade the Fatlings go;
Thomas hath ta'en the Oxen from the Plough;
Joan hath prepar'd the Supper 'gainst we come,
And late calf'd Cows stand lowing near their Home:
Then let's have done, and to our Rest repair,
And what we cannot help, with Patience bear.

112

TO Mr. ALLAN RAMSAY, ON HIS Richy and Sandy.
By Mr. BURCHET

Well fare thee, Allan, who in Mother Tongue,
So sweetly hath of breathless Addy sung.
His endless Fame thy nat'ral Genius fir'd,
And thou hast written as if he inspir'd.
Richy and Sandy, who do him survive,
Long as thy rural Stanza's last, shall live.
The grateful Swains thou'st made, in tuneful Verse,
Mourn sadly o'er their late—lost Patron's Hearse.
Nor would the Mantuan Bard, if living, blame
Thy pious Zeal, or think thou'st hurt his Fame,
Since Addison's inimitable Lays
Give him an equal Title to the Bays.
When he of Armies sang, in lofty Strains,
It seem'd as if he in the hostile Plains
Had present been. His Pen hath to the Life
Trac'd ev'ry Action in the sanguine Strife.
In Council now sedate the Chief appears,
Then loudly thunders in Bavarian Ears;
And still pursuing the destructive Theme,
He pushes them into the rapid Stream.

113

Thus beaten out of Blenheim's neighb'ring Fields,
The Gallic Gen'ral to the Victor yields,
Who, as Britannia's Virgil hath observ'd,
From threatn'd Fate all Europe then preserv'd.

Nor dost thou, Ramsay, sightless Milton wrong,
By ought contain'd in thy melodious Song;
For none but Addy could his Thoughts sublime
So well unriddle, or his mystick Rhime.
And when he deign'd to let his Fancy rove
Where Sun-burnt Shepherds to the Nymphs make Love,
No one e'er told in softer Notes the Tales
Of rural Pleasures in the spangled Vales.

So much, Oh Allan! I thy Lines revere,
Such Veneration to his Mem'ry bear,
That I no longer could my Thanks refrain
For what thou'st sung of the lamented Swain.

To JOSIAH BURCHET, Esq

Thirsting for Fame, at the Pierian Spring
The Poet takes a Waught, then seys to sing
Nature, and with the tentiest View to hit
Her bonny Side with bauldest Turns of Wit.
Streams slide in Verse, in Verse the Mountains rise,
When Earth turns toom he rummages the Skies,
Mounts up beyond them, paints the Fields of Rest,
Doups down to visit ilka laigh-land Ghaist.
O hartsome Labour! Wordy Time and Pains,
That, frae the Best, Esteem and Friendship gains.
Be that my Luck, and let the greedy Bike
Stock-job the Warld among them as they like.

114

In blyth braid Scots allow me, Sir, to shaw
My Gratitude, but Fleetching or a Flaw.
May Rowth o' Pleasures light upon ye lang,
Till to the blest Elysian Bowers ye gang;
Wha've clapt my Head sae brawly for my Sang.
When honour'd Burchet and his Maiks are pleas'd
With my Corn-pipe, up to the Starns I'm heez'd;
Whence far I glowr to the Fag-end of Time,
And view the Warld delighted wi' my Rhime.
That when the Pride of sprush new Words are laid,
I like the Classick Authors shall be read.
Stand yont proud Czar, I wadna niffer Fame
With thee, for a' thy Furrs and paughty Name.

If sic great Ferlies, Sir, my Muse can do,
As spin a three-plait Praise where it is due,
Frae me there's nane deserves it mair than you.
Frae me! Frae ilky ane; for sure a Breast
Sae gen'rous is of a' that's Good possest.
Till I can serve ye mair, I'll wish ye weell,
And aft in sparkling Claret drink your Heel:
Minding the Mem'ry of the Great and Good
Sweet Addison, the Wale of humane Blood,
Wha fell, (as Horace anes said to his Billy)
Nulli flebilior quam tibi Virgili.

SIR, Your's, &c. Al. Ramsay.

But is frequently used for without, i. e. without flat'ring.

115

FAMILIAR EPISTLES BETWEEN Lieutenant William Hamilton and Allan Ramsay.

EPISTLE I. Gilbertfield June 26th, 1719.

O fam'd and celebrated Allan!
Renowned Ramsay, canty Callan,
There's nowther Highlandman nor Lawlan,
In Poetrie,
But may as soon ding down Tamtallan
As match wi' thee.

For ten Times ten, and that's a hunder,
I ha'e been made to gaze and wonder,
When frae Parnassus thou didst thunder,
Wi' Wit and Skill,
Wherefore I'll soberly knock under,
And quat my Quill.

Of Poetry the hail Quintessence
Thou hast suck'd up, left nae Excrescence
To petty Poets, or sic Messens,
Tho round thy Stool,
They may pick Crumbs, and lear some Lessons
At Ramsay's School.

116

Tho Ben and Dryden of Renown
Were yet alive in London Town,
Like Kings contending for a Crown;
'Twad be a Pingle,
Whilk o' you three wad gar Words sound
And best to gingle.

Transform'd may I be to a Rat,
Wer't in my Pow'r but I'd create
Thee upo' sight the Laureat
Of this our Age,
Since thou may'st fairly claim to that
As thy just Wage.

Let modern Poets bear the Blame
Gin they respect not Ramsay's Name,
Wha soon can gar them greet for Shame,
To their great Loss;
And send them a' right sneaking hame
Be Weeping-Cross.

Wha bourds wi' thee had need be warry,
And lear wi' Skill thy Thrust to parry,
When thou consults thy Dictionary
Of ancient Words,
Which come from thy Poetick Quarry,
As sharp as Swords.

117

Now tho I should baith reel and rottle,
And be as light as Aristotle,
At Ed'nburgh we sall ha'e a Bottle
Of reaming Claret,
Gin that my haff-pay Siller Shottle
Can safely spare it.

At Crambo then we'll rack our Brain,
Drown ilk dull Care and aiking Pain,
Whilk aften does our Spirits drain
Of true Content;
Wow, Wow! but we's be wonder fain,
When thus acquaint.

Wi' Wine we'll gargarize our Craig,
Then enter in a lasting League,
Free of Ill Aspect or Intrigue,
And gin you please it,
Like Princes when met at the Hague,
We'll solemnize it.

Accept of this and look upon it
With Favour, tho poor I have done it;
Sae I conclude and end my Sonnet,
Who am most fully,
While I do wear a Hat or Bonnet,
Yours—wanton Willy.

118

POSTSCRIPT.

By this my Postscript I incline
To let you ken my hail Design
Of sic a lang imperfect Line,
Lyes in this Sentence,
To cultivate my dull Ingine
By your Acquaintance.

Your Answer therefore I expect,
And to your Friend you may direct,
At Gilbertfield do not neglect
When ye have Leisure,
Which I'll embrace with great Respect
And perfect Pleasure.

An old Fortification upon the Firth of Forth in East Lothian.

Tho celebrated Ben Johnston.

Scots Ramsay press'd hard, and sturdily vaunted,
He'd fight for the Laurel before he would want it:
But risit Apollo, and cry'd, Peace there old Stile,
Your Wit is obscure to one half of the Isle.

B. Sess. of Poets.

He held his Commission honourably in my Lord Hyndford's Regiment.

And may the Stars wha shine aboon
With Honour notice real Merit,
Be to my Friend auspicious soon,
And cherish ay sae fine a Spirit.

Nigh Glasgow.

ANSWER I. Edinburgh, July 10th, 1719.

Sonse fa me, witty, wanton Willy,
Gin blyth I was na as a Filly;
Not a fow Pint, nor short Hought Gilly,
Or Wine that's better,
Cou'd please sae meikle, my dear Billy,
As thy kind Letter.

119

Before a Lord and eik a Knight,
In Gossy Don's be Candle Light,
There first I saw't, and ca'd it right,
And the maist feck
Wha's seen't sinsyne, they ca'd as tight
As that on Heck.

Ha, heh! thought I, I canna say
But I may cock my Nose the Day,
When Hamilton the bauld and gay
Lends me a Heezy,
In Verse that slides sae smooth away,
Well tell'd and easy.

Sae roos'd by ane of well kend Mettle,
Nae sma did my Ambition pettle
My canker'd Criticks it will nettle,
And e'en sae be't:
This Month I'm sure I winna fettle,
Sae proud I'm wi't.

When I begoud first to cun Verse,
And cou'd your Ardry Whins rehearse,
Where Bonny Heck ran fast and fierce,
It warm'd my Breast;
Then Emulation did me pierce,
Whilk since ne'er ceast.

May I be licket wi' a Bittle,
Gin of your Numbers I think little;
Ye're never rugget, shan, nor kittle,
But blyth and gabby,
And hit the Spirit to a Title,
Of Standart Habby.

120

Ye'll quat your Quill! That were ill-willy,
Ye's sing some mair yet, nill ye will ye,
O'er meikle Haining wad but spill ye,
And gar ye sour,
Then up and war them a' yet, Willy,
'Tis in your Power.

To knit up Dollers in a Clout,
And then to eard them round about,
Syne to tell up, they downa lout
To lift the Gear;
The Malison lights on that Rout,
Is plain and clear.

The Chiels of London, Cam, and Ox,
Ha'e rais'd up great Poetick Stocks
Of Rapes, of Buckets, Sarks and Locks,
While we neglect
To shaw their betters. This provokes
Me to reflect

On the lear'd Days of Gawn Dunkell,
Our Country then a Tale cou'd tell,
Europe had nane mair snack and snell
At Verse or Prose;
Our Kings were Poets too themsell,
Bauld and Jocose.

121

To Ed'nburgh, Sir, when e'er ye come,
I'll wait upon ye, there's my Thumb,
Were't frae the Gill-bells to the Drum,
And take a Bout,
And faith I hope we'll no sit dumb,
Nor yet cast out.

The last Words of Bonny Heck, of which he was Author.

The Elegy on Habby Simpson Piper of Kilbarchan, a finish'd Piece of its Kind.

Gawn Douglas Brother to the Earl of Angus Bishop of Dunkell, who besides several original Poems, hath left a most exact Translation of Virgil's Æneis.

James the First and Fifth.

From Half an Hour before Twelve at Noon, when the Musick Bells begin to play, frequently called the Gill-Bells, from Peoples taking a wheting Dram at that Time. To the Drum, Ten a Clock at Night, when the Drum goes round to warn sober Folks to call for a Bill.

EPISTLE II. Gilbertfield, July 24th, 1719.

Dear Ramsay,

When I receiv'd thy kind Epistle,
It made me dance, and sing, and whistle;
O sic a Fyke, and sic a Fistle
I had about it!
That e'er was Knight of the Scots Thistle
Sae fain, I doubted.

The bonny Lines therein thou sent me,
How to the Nines they did content me;
Tho', Sir, sae high to compliment me,
Ye might defer'd,
For had ye but haff well a kent me,
Some less wad ser'd.

122

With joyfou Heart beyond Expression,
They're safely now in my Possession:
O gin I were a Winter-Session
Near by thy Lodging,
I'd closs attend thy new Profession,
Without e'er budging.

In even down earnest, there's but few
To vie with Ramsay dare avow,
In Verse, for to gi'e thee thy due,
And without fleetching,
Thou's better at that Trade, I trow,
Than some's at preaching.

For my Part, till I'm better leart,
To troke with thee I'd best forbear't;
For an' the Fouk of Edn'burgh hear't,
They'll ca' me daft,
I'm unco' irie and Dirt-feart
I make wrang Waft.

Thy Verses nice as ever nicket,
Made me as canty as a Cricket;
I ergh to reply, lest I stick it,
Syne like a Coof
I look, or ane whose Poutch is picket
As bare's my Loof.

Heh winsom! How thy saft sweet Stile,
And bonny auld Words gar me smile;
Thou's travel'd sure mony a Mile
Wi' Charge and Cost,
To learn them thus keep Rank and File,
And ken their Post.

123

For I maun tell thee, honest Allie,
I use the Freedom so to call thee,
I think them a' sae bra and walie,
And in sic Order,
I wad nae care to be thy Vallie,
Or thy Recorder.

Has thou with Rosycrucians wandert?
Or thro' some doncie Desart danert?
That with thy Magick, Town and Landart,
For ought I see,
Maun a' come truckle to thy Standart
Of Poetrie.

Do not mistake me, dearest Heart,
As if I charg'd thee with black Art;
'Tis thy good Genius still alart,
That does inspire
Thee with ilk Thing that's quick and smart,
To thy Desire.

E'en mony a bonny knacky Tale,
Bra to set o'er a Pint of Ale:
For Fifty Guineas I'll find Bail,
Against a Bodle,
That I wad quat ilk Day a Mail,
For sic a Nodle.

And on Condition I were as gabby,
As either thee, or honest Habby,
That I lin'd a' thy Claes wi' Tabby,
Or Velvet Plush,
And then thou'd be sae far frae shabby,
Thou'd look right sprush.

124

What tho young empty airy Sparks
May have their critical Remarks
On thir my blyth diverting Warks;
'Tis sma Presumption
To say they're but unlearned Clarks,
And want the Gumption.

Let Coxcomb Criticks get a Tether
To ty up a' their lang loose Lether;
If they and I chance to forgether,
The tane may rue it,
For an' they winna had their Blether,
They's get a Flewet.

To learn them for to peep and pry
In secret Drolls 'twixt thee and I;
Pray dip thy Pen in Wrath, and cry,
And ca' them Skellums,
I'm sure thou needs set little by
To bide their Bellums.

Wi' Writing I'm so bleirt and doited,
That when I raise, in Troth I stoited;
I thought I shou'd turn capernoited,
For wi' a Gird,
Upon my Bum I fairly cloited
On the cald Eard.

Which did oblige a little Dumple
Upon my Doup, close by my Rumple:
But had ye seen how I did trumple,
Ye'd split your Side,
Wi' mony a long and weary Wimple,
Like Trough of Clyde.

The antient and most noble Order of Knighthood, erected by King Achaius. The ordinary Ensign worn by the Knights of the Order, was a green Ribband, to which was appended a Thistle of Gold crown'd with an imperial Crown, within a Circle of Gold, with this Motto, Nemo me impune lacesset.

This Compliment is intirely free of the fulsome Hyperbole.

A People deeply learn'd in the occult Sciences, who convers'd with aerial Beings. Gentlemanny Kind of Necromancers, or so.

125

ANSWER II. Edinburgh, August 4th, 1719.

Dear Hamilton ye'll turn me Dyver,
My Muse sae bonny ye descrive her,
Ye blaw her sae, I'm fear'd ye rive her,
For wi' a Whid,
Gin ony higher up ye drive her,
She'll rin red-wood.

Said I,—“Whisht, quoth the vougy Jade,
“William's a wise judicious Lad,
“Has Havins mair than e'er ye had,
“Ill bred Bog-staker;
“But me ye ne'er sae crouse had craw'd,
“Ye poor Scull-thacker.

“It sets you well indeed to gadge!
“E'er I t'Appollo did ye cadge,
“And got ye on his Honour's Badge,
“Ungratefou Beast,
“A Glasgow Capon and a Fadge
“Ye thought a Feast.

126

“Swith to Castalius' Fountain-Brink,
“Dad down a Grouf, and take a Drink,
“Syne whisk out Paper, Pen and Ink,
And do my Bidding;
“Be thankfou, else I'se gar ye stink
Yet on a Midding.

My Mistress dear, your Servant humble,
Said I, I shou'd be laith to drumble
Your Passions, or e'er gar ye grumble,
'Tis ne'er be me
Shall scandalize, or say ye bummil
Ye'r Poetrie.

Frae what I've tell'd, my Friend may learn
How sadly I ha'e been forfairn,
I'd better been a yont Side Kairn-
amount , I trow;
I've kiss'd the Taz like a good Bairn,
Now, Sir to you.

Heal be your Heart, gay couthy Carle,
Lang may ye help to toom a Barrel;
Be thy Crown ay unclowr'd in Quarrel,
When thou inclines
To knoit thrawn gabbed Sumphs that snarl
At our frank Lines.

Ilk good Chiel says, Ye're well worth Gowd,
And Blythness on ye's well bestow'd,
'Mang witty Scots ye'r Name's be row'd,
Ne'er Fame to tine;
The crooked Clinkers shall be cow'd,
But ye shall shine.

127

Set out the burnt Side of your Shin,
For Pride in Poets is nae Sin,
Glory's the Prize for which they rin,
And Fame's their Jo;
And wha blaws best the Horn shall win:
And wharefore no?

Quisquis vocabit nos Vain-glorious,
Shaw scanter Skill, than malos mores,
Multi & magni Men before us
Did stamp and swagger,
Probatum est, exemplum Horace,
Was a bauld Bragger.

Then let the Doofarts fash'd wi' Spleen,
Cast up the wrang Side of their Een,
Pegh, fry and girn wi' Spite and Teen,
And fa a flyting,
Laugh, for the lively Lads will screen
Us frae Back-biting.

If that the Gypsies dinna spung us,
And foreign Whiskers ha'e na dung us;
Gin I can snifter thro' Mundungus,
Wi' Boots and Belt on,
I hope to see you at St. Mungo's
Atween and Beltan.

Run distracted.

The Muse not unreasonably angry, puts me here in Mind of the Favours she has done, by bringing me from stalking over Bogs or wild Marishes, to lift my Head a little Brisker among the polite World, which could never been acquired by the low Movements of a Mechanick.

Thatcher of Sculs.

Ironically she says, It becomes me mighty well to talk haughtily and afront my Benefactoress, by alledging so meanly that it were possible to praise her out of her Solidity.

A Herring. A Fadge. A course kind of leaven'd Bread, used by the common People.

Fall flat on your Belly.

A noted Hill in the North of Scotland.

Kiss'd the Rod. Own'd my Fault like a good Child.

The scribling Rhimers, with their lame Versification. Shall be cow'd, i.e. shorn off.

As if one would say, Walk stately with your Toes out. An Expression used when we wou'd bid a Person (merrily) look brisk.

The high Church of Glasgow.

128

EPISTLE III. Gilbertfield August 24th, 1719.

Accept my third and last Essay
Of rural Rhyme, I humbly pray,
Bright Ramsay, and altho it may
Seem doilt and donsie,
Yet thrice of all Things, I heard say
Was ay thought sonsie,

Wherefore I scarce cou'd sleep or slumber,
Till I made up that happy Number,
The Pleasure counterpois'd the Cumber,
In ev'ry Part,
And snoov't away like three Hand Omber,
Sixpence a Cart.

Of thy last Poem, bearing Date
August the Fourth, I grant Receipt;
It was sae bra, gart me look blate,
'Maist tyne my Senses,
And look just like poor Country Kate
In Lucky Spence's.

I shaw'd it to our Parish Priest,
Wha was as blyth as gi'm a Feast;
He says, Thou may had up thy Creest,
And craw fu' crouse,
The Poets a' to thee's but Jest,
Not worth a Souce.

129

Thy blyth and cheerfu' merry Muse,
Of Compliments is sae profuse;
For my good Haivens dis me roose
Sae very finely
It were ill Breeding to refuse
To thank her kindly.

What tho sometimes in angry Mood,
When she puts on her Barlick-hood,
Her Dialect seem rough and rude;
Let's ne'er be flee't,
But take our Bit when it is good,
And Buffet wi't.

For gin we ettle anes to taunt her,
And dinna cawmly thole her Banter,
She'll take the Flings ; Verse may grow scanter,
Syne wi' great Shame
We'll rue the Day that we do want her,
Then wha's to blame?

But let us still her Kindness culzie,
And wi' her never breed a Toulzie,
For we'll bring aff but little Spulzie
In sic a Barter;
And she'll be fair to gar us fulzie,
And cry for Quarter.

Sae little worth's my rhyming Ware,
My Pack I scarce dare apen mair,
Till I take better wi' the Lair,
My Pen's sae blunted;
And a' for Fear I file the Fair,
And be affronted.

130

The dull Draff-drink makes me sae dowff,
A' I can do's but bark and yowff;
Yet set me in a Claret Howff,
Wi' Fowk that's chancy,
My Muse may len me then a Gowff
To clear my Fancy.

Then Bacchus like I'd bawl and bluster,
And a' the Muses 'bout me muster;
Sae merrily I'd squeeze the Cluster,
And drink the Grape,
'Twad gi my Verse a brighter Lustre,
And better Shape.

The Pow'rs aboon be still auspicious
To thy Atchievements maist delicious,
Thy Poems sweet and nae Way vicious,
But blyth and kanny;
To see, I'm anxious and ambitious,
Thy Miscellany.

A' Blessings, Ramsay, on thee row,
Lang may thou live, and thrive, and dow,
Until thou claw an auld Man's Pow;
And thro' thy Creed,
Be keeped frae the Wirricow
After thou's dead.

Whirl'd smoothly round. Snooving always expresses the Action of a Top or Spindle, &c.

Vide Lucky Spence Elegy, Line 76.

Turn sullen, restive, and kick.

This Phrase is used when one attempts to do what's handsome, and is affronted by not doing it right,—not a reasonable Fear in him.

Heavy Malt Liquor.

All this Verse is a succinct Cluster of kind Wishes, elegantly express'd, with a friendly Spirit, to which I take the Liberty to add Amen.

131

ANSWER III. Edinburgh, September 2d, 1719.

My Trusty Trojan,

Thy last Oration orthodox,
Thy innocent auldfarren Jokes,
And sonsie Saw of Three provokes
Me anes again,
Tod Lowrie like , to loose my Pocks,
And pump my Brain.

By a' your Letters I ha'e red,
I eithly scan the Man well bred,
And Soger that where Honour led,
Has ventur'd bauld;
Wha now to Youngsters leaves the Yed
To 'tend his Fald.

That Bang'ster Billy Cæsar July,
Wha at Pharsalia wan the Tooly,
Had better sped, had he mair hooly
Scamper'd thro' Life,
And 'midst his Glories sheath'd his Gooly,
And kiss'd his Wife.

132

Had he like you, as well he cou'd,
Upon Burn Banks the Muses woo'd,
Retir'd betimes frae 'mang the Crowd,
Wha'd been aboon him?
The Senate's Durks, and Faction loud,
Had ne'er undone him.

Yet sometimes leave the Riggs and Bog,
Your Howms, and Braes, and shady Scrog,
And helm-a-lee the Claret cog,
To clear your Wit:
Be blyth, and let the Warld e'en shog,
As it thinks fit.

Ne'er fash about your neist Year's State,
Nor with superior Powers debate,
Nor Cantrapes cast to ken your Fate;
There's Ills anew
To cram our Days, which soon grow late;
Let's live just now.

When Northern Blasts the Ocean snurl,
And gars the Heights and Hows look gurl,
Then left about the Bumper whirl,
And toom the Horn,
Grip fast the Hours which hasty hurl,
The Morn's the Morn.

Thus to Leuconoe sang sweet Flaccus,
Wha nane e'er thought a Gillygacus:
And why should we let Whimsies bawk us,
When Joy's in Season,
And thole sae aft the Spleen to whauk us
Out of our Reason?

133

Tho I were Laird of Tenscore Acres,
Nodding to Jouks of Hallenshakers,
Yet crush'd wi' Humdrums, which the Weaker's
Contentment ruines,
I'd rather roost wi' Causey-Rakers,
And sup cauld Sowens.

I think, my Friend, an Fowk can get
A Doll of rost Beef pypin het,
And wi' red Wine their Wyson wet,
And Cleathing clean,
And be nae sick, or drown'd in Debt,
They're no to mean.

I red this Verse to my ain Kimmer,
Wha kens I like a Leg of Gimmer,
Or sic and sic good Belly Timmer;
Quoth she, and leugh,
“Sicker of thae Winter and Simmer,
“Ye're well enough.

My hearty Goss, there is nae Help,
But Hand to Nive we twa maun skelp
Up Rhine and Thames, and o'er the Alp-
pines and Pyrenians,
The chearfou Carles do sae yelp
To ha'e 's their Minions.

134

Thy raffan rural Rhyme sae rare,
Sic wordy, wanton, hand-wail'd Ware,
Sae gash and gay, gars Fowk gae gare
To ha'e them by them;
Tho gaffin they wi' Sides sae sair,
Cry,—“Wae gae by him!

Fair fa that Sodger did invent
To ease the Poets Toil wi' Print:
Now, William, wi' maun to the Bent,
And pouss our Fortune,
And crack wi' Lads wha're well content
Wi' this our Sporting.

Gin ony sour-mou'd girning Bucky
Ca' me conceity keckling Chucky,
That we like Nags whase Necks are yucky,
Ha'e us'd our Teeth;
I'll answer fine,—Gae kiss ye'r Lucky
She dwells i' Leith.

I ne'er wi' lang Tales fash my Head,
But when I speak, I speak indeed:
Wha ca's me droll, but ony Feed,
I'll own I am sae,
And while my Champers can chew Bread,

Yours—Allan Ramsay.

Like Rynard the Fox, to betake my self to some more of my Wiles.

Leaves the Martial Contention, and retires to a Country Life.

'Tis well known he could write as well as fight.

'Tis frequent in the Country to drink Beer out of Horn Cups, made in Shape of a Water Glass.

Vide Book I. 11. Ode of Horace.

A Hallen is a Fence (built of Stone, Turf, or a moveable Flake of Heather) at the Sides of the Door in Country Places, to defend them from the Wind. The trembling Attendant about a forgetfull great Man's Gate or Levee, is all express'd in the Term Hallenshaker.

Make People very earnest.

'Tis usual for many, after a full Laugh, to complain of sore Sides, and to bestow a kindly Curse on the Author of the Jest. But the Folks of more tender Consciences have turned their Expletives to friendly Wishes, such as this; or, Sonse fa' ye, and the like.

Is a cant Phrase, from what Rise I know not; but 'tis made use of when one thinks it not worth while to give a direct Answer, or think themselves foolishly accused.

135

AN EPISTLE To Lieutenant Hamilton

On the receiving the Compliment of a Barrel of Loch-Fine Herrings from him.

Your Herrings, Sir, came hale and feer,
In healsome Brine a' soumin,
Fu' fat they are and gusty Gear,
As e'er I laid my Thumb on:
Bra sappy Fish
As an cou'd wish
To clap on Fadge or Scon;
They relish fine
Good Claret Wine,
That gars our Cares stand yon.

Right mony Gabs wi' them shall gang
About Auld Reeky's Ingle,
When kedgy Carles think nae lang,
Where Stoups and Trunchers gingle;
Then my Friend leal,
We toss ye'r Heal,
And with bald Brag advance,
What's hoorded in
Lochs Broom and Fine
Might ding the Stocks of France.

136

A jelly Sum to carry on
A Fishery's design'd,
Twa Million good of Sterling Pounds,
By Men of Money's sign'd.
Had ye but seen
How unco' keen
And thrang they were about it,
That we are bald
Right rich and ald-
Farran ye ne'r wad doubted.

Now, now I hope we'll ding the Dutch,
As fine as a round Robin,
Gin Greediness to grow soon rich
Invites not to Stock-jobbing:
That poor boss Shade
Of sinking Trade,
And Weather-Glass Politick,
Which heaves and sets,
As Publick gets
A Heezy, or a wee Kick.

Fy, fy! But yet I hope 'tis daft
To fear that Trick come hither,
Na, we're aboon that dirty Craft
Of biting an anither.
The Subject rich
Will gi' a Hitch
T'increase the publick Gear,
When on our Seas,
Like bisy Bees,
Ten thousand Fishers steer.

137

Could we catch the united Shoals
That crowd the Western Ocean,
The India's wad prove hungry Holes,
Compar'd to this our Goshen:
Then let's to wark
With Net and Bark,
Them fish and faithfu' cure up;
Gin sae we join,
We'll cleek in Coin
Frae a' the Ports of Europe.

Thanks t'ye Captain for this Swatch
Of our Store, and your Favour;
Gin I be spar'd, your Love to match
Shall still be my Endeavour.
Next unto you,
My Service due
Please gi'e to Matthew Cumin,
Wha with fair Heart
Has play'd his Part,
And sent them true and trim in.

Whole, without the least Fault or Want.

Two Lochs on the Western Seas, where Plenty of Herrings are tane.

The Royal Fishery; Success to which is the Wish and Hope of every good Man.

Merchant in Glasgow, and one of the late Magistrates of that City.

138

PATIE and ROGER:

A PASTORAL

Inscrib'd to JOSIAH BURCHET, Esq; Secretary of the Admiralty.

[The nipping Frosts and driving Sna]

The nipping Frosts and driving Sna
Are o'er the Hills and far awa;
Bauld Boreas sleeps, the Zephyres blaw,
And ilka Thing
Sae dainty, youthfou, gay and bra'
Invites to sing.

Then let's begin by creek of Day,
Kind Muse skiff to the Bent away,
To try anes mair the Landart Lay,
With a' thy Speed,
Since Burchet awns that thou can play
Upon the Reed.

Anes, anes again beneath some Tree
Exert thy Skill and nat'ral Glee,
To him wha has sae courteously,
To weaker Sight,
Set these rude Sonnets sung by me
In truest Light.

139

In truest Light may a' that's fine
In his fair Character still shine,
Sma' need he has of Sangs like mine,
To beet his Name;
For frae the North to Southern Line,
Wide gangs his Fame.

His Fame, which ever shall abide,
While Hist'ries tell of Tyrants Pride,
Wha vainly strave upon the Tide
T'invade these Lands,
Where Briton's Royal Fleet doth ride,
Which still commands.

These doughty Actions frae his Pen,
Our Age, and these to come, shall ken,
How stubborn Navies did contend
Upon the Waves,
How free-born Britons faught like Men,
Their Faes like Slaves.

Sae far inscribing, Sir, to you,
This Country Sang my Fancy flew,
Keen your just Merit to pursue;
But ah! I fear,
In giving Praises that are due,
I grate your Ear.

Yet tent a Poet's zealous Pray'r;
May Powers aboon with kindly Care,
Grant you a lang and muckle Skair
Of a' that's Good,
Till unto langest Life and mair
You've healthfu' stood.

140

May never Care your Blessings sowr,
And may the Muses ilka Hour
Improve your Mind, and Haunt your Bower:
I'm but a Callan:
Yet may I please you, while I'm your
Devoted Allan.

Having done me the Honour of turning some of my pastoral Poems into English justly and elegantly.

His valuable naval History.

141

Patie and Roger.

Beneath the South-side of a Craigy Bield,
Where a clear Spring did healsome Water yield,
Twa youthfou Shepherds on the Gowans lay,
Tenting their Flocks ae bonny Morn of May:
Poor Roger gran'd till hollow Echoes rang,
While merry Patie humm'd himsel a Sang:
Then turning to his Friend in blythsome Mood,
Quoth he, How does this Sunshine chear my Blood?
How heartsome is't to see the rising Plants?
To hear the Birds chirm o'er their Morning Rants?
How tosie is't to snuff the cauller Air,
And a' the Sweets it bears, when void of Care?
What ails thee, Roger, then? What gars thee grane?
Tell me the Cause of thy ill season'd Pain.

ROGER.
I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart Fate!
I'm born to strive with Hardships dire and great;
Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan Flood,
Corbies and Tods to grein for Lambkins Blood:
But I opprest with never ending Grief,
Maun ay despair of lighting on Relief.

142

PATIE.
The Bees shall loath the Flower and quite the Hive,
The Saughs on boggy Ground shall cease to thrive,
E'er scornfou Queans, or Loss of warldly Gear,
Shall spill my Rest, or ever force a Tear.

ROGER.
Sae might I say, but it's nae easy done
By ane wha's Saul is sadly out o' Tune:
You have sae saft a Voice and slid a Tongue,
You are the Darling of baith auld and young.
If I but ettle at a Sang, or speak,
They dit their Lugs, syn up their Leglens cleek,
And jeer me hameward frae the Loan or Bught,
While I'm confus'd with mony a vexing Thought:
Yet I am tall, and as well shap'd as thee,
Nor mair unlikely to a Lasse's Eye:
For ilka Sheep ye have I'll number ten,
And should, as ane might think, come farrer ben.

PATIE.
But ablins, Nibour, ye have not a Heart,
Nor downa eithly wi' your Cunzie part:
If that be true, what signifies your Gear?
And mind that's scrimpit never wants some Care.

ROGER.
My Byar tumbled, Nine braw Nowt were smoor'd,
Three Elf-shot were, yet I these Ills endur'd.
In Winter last my Cares were very sma,
Tho Scores of Wedders perish'd in the Sna.

143

PATIE.
Were your bein Rooms as thinly stock'd as mine,
Less you wad loss, and less you wad repine:
He wha has just enough can soundly sleep,
The O'ercome only fashes Fowk to keep.

ROGER.
May Plenty flow upon thee for a Cross,
That thou may'st thole the Pangs of frequent Loss;
O may'st thou dote on some fair paughty Wench,
Wha ne'er will lout thy lowan Drouth to quench,
Till, birs'd beneath the Burden, thou cry Dool,
And awn that ane may fret that is nae Fool.

PATIE.
Sax good fat Lambs, I sald them ilka Cloot
At the West-Port , and bought a winsome Flute,
Of Plumb-tree made, with Iv'ry Virles round,
A dainty Whistle wi' a pleasant Sound;
I'll be mair canty wi't, and ne'er cry Dool,
Than you with a your Gear, ye dowie Fool.

ROGER.
Na, Patie, na, I'm nae sic churlish Beast,
Some ither Things ly heavier at my Breast;
I dream'd a dreery Dream this hinder Night.
That gars my Flesh a' creep yet wi' the Fright.

144

PATIE.
Now to your Friend how silly's this Pretence,
To ane wha you and a' your Secrets kens:
Daft are your Dreams, as daftly wad ye hide
Your well-seen Love, and dorty Jenny's Pride.
Take Courage, Roger, me your Sorrows tell,
And safely think nane kens them but your sell.

ROGER.
O Patie, ye have ghest indeed o'er true,
And there is naething I'll keep up frae you;
Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint,
To speak but till her I dare hardly mint;
In ilka Place she jeers me air and late,
And gars me look bumbas'd and unco blate,
But Yesterday I met her yont a Know,
She fled as frae a Shellycoat or Kow;
She Bauldy loo's, Bauldy that drives the Car,
But gecks at me, and says I smell o' Tar.

PATIE.
But Bauldy loo's nae her right well I wat,
He sighs for Neps;—Sae that may stand for that.

ROGER.
I wish I cou'd na loo her,—but in vain,
I still maun dote and thole her proud Disdain.
My Bauty is a Cur I dearly like,
Till he youl'd fair, she strake the poor dumb Tyke:

145

If I had fill'd a Nook within her Breast,
She wad ha'e shawn mair Kindness to my Beast.
When I begin to tune my Stock and Horn,
With a' her Face she shaws a cauldrife Scorn:
Last Time I play'd, ye never saw sic Spite,
O'er Bogie was the Spring, and her Delyte,
Yet tauntingly she at her Nibour speer'd
Gin she cou'd tell what Tune I play'd, and sneer'd.
Flocks wander where ye like, I dinna care;
I'll break my Reed, and never whistle mair.

PATIE.
E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help Misluck,
Saebeins she be sic a thrawn-gabet Chuck;
Yonder's a Craig, since ye have tint a' Hope,
Gae till't ye'r ways, and take the Lover's Loup.

ROGER.
I need na make sic Speed my Blood to spill,
I'll warrand Death come soon enough a will.

PATIE.
Daft Gowk! Leave aff that silly whindging Way,
Seem careless, there's my Hand ye'll win the Day.
Last Morning I was unco airly out,
Upon a Dyke I lean'd and glowr'd about;
I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the Lee,
I saw my Meg, but Maggie saw na me:
For yet the Sun was wading throw the Mist,
And she was closs upon me e'er she wist.
Her Coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw
Her straight bare Legs, which whiter were than Snaw:

146

Her Cokernony snooded up fou sleek,
Her haffet Locks hung waving on her Cheek:
Her Cheek sae ruddy! and her Een sae clear!
And O! her Mouth's like ony hinny Pear.
Neat, neat she was in Bustine Wastecoat clean,
As she came skiffing o'er the dewy Green:
Blythsome I cry'd, My bonny Meg come here,
I fairly wherefore ye'er sae soon a steer:
But now I guess ye'er gawn to gather Dew.
She scour'd awa, and said what's that to you?
Then fare ye well, Meg Dorts, and e'en 's ye like,
I careless cry'd, and lap in o'er the Dyke.
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack
With a right thieveles Errand she came back;
Miscau'd me first,—then bade me hound my Dog
To weer up three waff Ews were on the Bog.
I leugh, and sae did she, then wi' great Haste
I clasp'd my Arms about her Neck and Waste;
About her yielding Waste, and took a fouth
Of sweetest Kisses frae her glowan Mouth:
While hard and fast I held her in my Grips,
My very Saul came louping to my Lips.
Sair, sair she flete wi' me 'tween ilka Smak,
But well I kend she mean'd na as she spak.
Dear Roger, when your Jo puts on her Gloom,
Do ye sae too, and never fash your Thumb:
Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her Mood;
Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood.

ROGER.
Kind Patie, now fair faw your honest Heart,
Ye'r ay sae kedgie, and ha'e sick an Art
To hearten ane:—For now as clean's a Leek
Ye've cherisht me since ye began to speak:

147

Sae for your Pains I'll make you a Propine,
My Mither, honest Wife, has made it fine;
A Tartan Plaid, spun of good hauslock Woo,
Scarlet and green the Sets, the Borders Blue,
With Spraings like Gou'd and Siller, cross'd wi' black,
I never had it yet upon my Back.
Well are ye wordy o't, wha ha'e sae kind
Redd up my ravel'd Doubts, and clear'd my Mind.

PATIE.
Well, hadd ye there,—and since ye've frankly made
A Present to me of your bra new Plaid,
My Flute's be yours, and she too that's sae nice,
Shall come a Will, if you'll take my Advice.

ROGER.
As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't,
But ye maun keep the Flute, ye best deserv't;
Now take it out, and gi'es a bonny Spring,
For I'm in tift to hear you play or sing.

PATIE.
But first we'll take a Turn up to the Hight,
And see gin a' our Flocks be feeding right:
Be that Time Bannocks and a Shave of Cheese
Will make a Breakfast that a Laird might please;

148

Might please our Laird, gin he were but sae wise
To season Meat wi' Health instead of Spice:
When we ha'e ta'en the Grace-Drink at this Well,
I'll whistle fine, and sing t'ye like my sell.

Yet the richest Shepherd in his Stores, but disconsolate, whom

A chearful Shepherd of less Wealth endeavours to comfort.

Bewitch'd, shot by Fairies, Country People tell odd Tales of this Distemper amongst Cows. When Elf-shot, the Cow falls down suddenly dead, no Part of the Skin is pierced, but often a little triangular flat Stone is found near the Beast, as they report, which is call'd the Elf's Arrow.

The Sheep Market Place of Edinburgh.

A Phrase which expresses Shuddering.

Hide or retain.

One of those frightful Spectres the ignorant People are terrified at, and tell us strange Stories of; that they are clothed with a Coat of Shells, which make a horrid rattling, that they'll be sure to destroy one, if he gets not a running Water between him and it; it dares not meddle with a Woman with Child, &c.

A Reed or Whistle, with a Horn fix'd to it by the smaller End.

Soon stirring, or up.

Be not the least vex'd, be easy.

Perfectly claver and right.

A fine Wool which is pull'd off the Necks of Sheep before the Knife be put in, this being so much gain'd without spoiling the Sale of the Skin, is gather'd for such an Use.

Is a Metaphorical Phrase from the putting in Order, or winding up Yarn that has been ravel'd.

Come willingly, of her own Accord, without Constraint.

The King's Health, begun first by the religious Margaret Queen of Scots, known by the Name of St. Margaret. The Piety of her Design was to oblige the Courtiers not to rise from Table till the Thanksgiving Grace was said, well judging, that tho some Folks have little Regard for Religion, yet they will be mannerly to their Prince.

149

EDINBURGH'S SALUTATION

To the Most Honourable, My Lord Marquess of CARNARVON.

Welcome, my Lord, Heav'n be your Guide,
And furder your Intention,
To what e'er Place you sail or ride,
To brighten your Invention.
The Book of Mankind lang and wide
Is well worth your Attention:
Wherefore please some Time here abide,
And measure the Dimension
Of Minds right stout.

O that ilk worthy British Peer
Wad follow your Example,
My auld Gray-Head I yet wad rear,
And spread my Skirts mair ample.
Shou'd London poutch up a' the Gear?
She might spare me a Sample:
In Trouth his Highness shou'd live here;
For without Oyl our Lamp will
Gang blinkan out.

150

Lang syne, my Lord, I had a Court,
And Nobles fill'd my Cawsy;
But since I have been Fortune's Sport,
I look nae haff sae gawsy.
Yet here brave Gentlemen resort,
And mony a handsome Lassy:
Now that you're lodg'd within my Port,
Fow well I wat they'll a' say,
Welcome, my Lord.

For you my best Chear I'll produce,
I'll no make muckle vaunting;
But routh for Pleasure and for Use,
Whatever you be wanting,
You's have at Will to chap and chuse;
For few Things am I scant in;
The Wale of well-set Ruby Juice,
When you like to be rantin,
I can afford.

Than I, nor Paris, nor Madrid,
Nor Rome, I trow's mair able
To busk you up a better Bed,
Or trim a tighter Table.
My Sons are honourably bred,
To Truth and Friendship stable:
What my detracting Faes have said,
You'll find a feigned Fable,
At the first Sight.

151

May Classic Lear and Letters Belle,
And Travelling conspire,
Ilk unjust Notion to repell,
And God-like Thoughts inspire;
That in ilk Action wise and snell
You may shaw Manly Fire:
Sae the fair Picture of himsell,
Will give his Grace your Sire
Immense Delight.

Eldest Son to his Grace the Duke of Chandois, who in May 1720 was at Edinburgh in his Tour through Scotland.

Edinburgh too justly complains that the North of Britain is so remote from the Court, and so rarely enjoys the Influence of British Stars of the first Magnitude.

The most choice of fine clear Claret.

These who from a malicious low Prejudice (only the Scum indeed of our Neighbours) have falsly reproached us with being rude, unhospitable and false.

152

WEALTH, or the WOODY.

A Poem on the SOUTH-SEA. Wrote June 1720.

Illi robur & aes triplex
Circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci
Commisit pelago ratem
Primus, ------
Hor.

Daring and unco' stout he was,
With Heart hool'd in three Sloughs of Brass,
Wha ventur'd first upon the Sea
With Hempen Branks, and Horse of Tree.

Thalia , ever welcome to this Isle,
Descend, and glad the Nation with a Smile;
See frae yon Bank where South-Sea ebbs and flows,
How Sand-blind Chance Woodies and Wealth bestows:
Aided by thee, I'll sail the wondrous Deep,
And throw the crowded Alleys cautious creep.
Not easy Task to plough the swelling Wave,
Or in Stock-jobbing Press my Guts to save:
But naething can our wilder Passions tame,
Wha rax for Riches or immortal Fame.

153

Long had the Grumblers us'd this murm'ring Sound,
Poor Britain in her Publick Debt is drown'd!
At fifty Millions late we started a',
And wow we wonder'd how the Debt wad fa';
But sonsy Sauls wha first contriv'd the Way,
With Project deep our Charges to defray;
O'er and aboon it Heaps of Treasure brings,
That Fouk be guess become as rich as Kings.
Lang Heads they were that first laid down the Plan,
Into the which the Round anes headlang ran,
Till overstockt, they quat the Sea, and fain wa'd been at Land.
Thus when braid Flakes of Snaw have clade the Green,
Aften I have young sportive Gilpies seen,
The waxing Ba' with meikle Pleasure row,
Till past their Pith, it did unwieldy grow.

'Tis strange to think what Changes may appear
Within the narrow Circle of a Year.
How can ae Project, if it be well laid,
Supply the simple Want of trifling Trade!
Saxty lang Years a Man may rack his Brain,
Hunt after Gear baith Night and Day wi' Pain,
And die at last in Debt, instead of Gain.
But O South-Sea! What mortal Mind can run
Throw a' the Miracles that thou hast done?
Nor scrimply thou thy sell to bounds confines,
But like the Sun on ilka Party shines.
To Poor and Rich, the Fools as well as Wise,
With Hand impartial stretches out the Prize.

154

Like Nilus swelling frae his unkend Head,
Frae Bank to Brae o'erflows ilk Rig and Mead,
Instilling lib'ral Store of genial Sap,
Whence Sun-burn'd Gypsies reap a plenteous Crap:
Thus flows our Sea, but with this Diff'rence wide,
But anes a Year their River heaves his Tide;
Ours aft ilk Day, t'enrich the Common Weal,
Bangs o'er its Banks, and dings Ægyptian Nile.

Ye Rich and Wise, we own Success your due,
But your Reverse their Luck with Wonder view.
How without Thought these dawted Petts of Fate
Have jobb'd themselves into sae high a State,
By pure Instinct sae leal the Mark have hit,
Without the Use of either Fear or Wit.
And ithers wha last Years their Garrets kept,
Where Duns in Vision fash'd them while they slept;
Wha only durst in Twilight or the Dark,
Steal to a common Cook's with haff a Mark,
A' their hale Stock.—Now by a kanny Gale,
In the o'erflowing Ocean spread their Sail,
While they in gilded Galleys cut the Tide,
Look down on Fisher Boats wi' meikle Pride.

155

Mean time the Thinkers wha are out of Play,
For their ain Comfort kenna what to say;
That the Foundation's loose fain wa'd they shaw,
And think na but the Fabrick soon will fa'.
That's a' but Sham,—for inwardly they fry,
Vext that their Fingers were na in the Pye.
Faint-hearted Wights, wha dully stood afar,
Tholling your Reason great Attempts to mar;
While the brave Dauntless, of sic Fetters free,
Jumpt headlong glorious in the golden Sea:
Where now like Gods they rule each wealthy Jaw,
While you may thump your Pows against the Wa'.

On Summers E'en the Welkin cawm and fair,
When little Midges frisk in lazy Air,
Have ye not seen thro' ither how they reel,
And Time about how up and down they wheel?
Thus Eddies of Stock-jobbers drive about;
Upmost to Day, the Morn their Pipe's put out.
With pensive Face, when e'er the Market's hy,
Minutius crys, Ah! what a Gowk was I.
Some Friend of his, wha wisely seems to ken
Events of Causes mair than ither Men,
Push for your Interest yet, Nae Fear, he crys,
For South-Sea will to twice ten hunder rise.
Waes me for him that sells paternal Land,
And buys when Shares the highest Sums demand:
He ne'er shall taste the Sweets of rising Stock,
Which faws neist Day: Nae Help for't, he is broke.

156

Dear Sea, be tenty how thou flows at Shams
Of Hogland Gad'rens in their Froggy Dams,
Lest in their muddy Boggs thou chance to sink,
Where thou may'st stagnate, syne of Course maun stink.

This I forsee, (and Time shall prove I'm right;
For he's nae Poet wants the second Sight,)
When Autumn's Stores are ruck'd up in the Yard,
And Sleet and Snaw dreeps down cauld Winter's Beard;
When bleak November Winds make Forrests bare,
And with splenetick Vapours fill the Air:
Then, then in Gardens, Parks, or silent Glen,
When Trees bear naething else, they'll carry Men,
Wha shall like paughty Romans greatly swing
Aboon Earth's Disappointments in a String.
Sae ends the towring Saul that downa see
A Man move in a higher Sphere than he.

Happy that Man wha has thrawn up a Main,
Which makes some Hundred thousands a' his ain,
And comes to anchor on sae firm a Rock,
Britannia's Credit, and the South-Sea Stock.
Ilk blythsome Pleasure waits upon his Nod,
And his Dependants eye him like a God.
Closs may he bend Champain frae E'en to Morn,
And look on Cells of Tippony with Scorn.
Thrice lucky Pimps, or smug-fac'd wanton Fair,
That can in a' his Wealth and Pleasure skair.
Like Jove he sits, like Jove, high Heavens Goodman,
While the inferiour Gods about him stand,
Till he permits with condescending Grace,
That ilka ane in Order take their Place.
Thus with attentive Look mensfow they sit,
Till he speak first, and shaw some shining Wit;

157

Syne circling wheels the flattering Gaffaw,
As well they may, he gars their Beards wag a'.
Imperial Gowd, What is't thou canna grant?
Possest of thee, What is't a Man needs want?
Commanding Coin, there's nathing hard to thee,
I canna guess how rich Fowk come to die.

Unhappy Wretch, link'd to the threed-bare Nine,
The dazling Equipage can ne'er be thine:
Destin'd to toil thro' Labyrinths of Verse,
Dar'st speak of great Stock-jobbing as a Farce.
Poor thoughtless Mortal, vain of airy Dreams,
Thy flying Horse, and bright Apollo's Beams,
And Helicon's wersh Well thou ca's Divine,
Are nathing like a Mistress, Coach and Wine.

Wad some good Patron (whase superior Skill
Can make the South-Sea ebb and flow at Will,)
Put in a Stock for me, I own it fair,
In Epick Strain I'd pay him to a Hair;
Immortalize him, and what e'er he loves,
In flowing Numbers I shall sing, Approves;
If not, Fox like, I'll thraw my Gab, and gloom,
And ca' your Hundred Thousand a sour Plum.

Thalia the chearful Muse that delights to imitate the Actions of Mankind, and produces the laughing Comedy. . . . That Kind of Poetry ever acceptable to Britons.

Land, in the Time of this Golden two or three Months, was sold at 45, or 50 Years Purchase.

All Manner of Traffick and Mechanicks was at that Time despised. Subscriptions and Transfers were the only Commodities.

A River which crosses a great Part of Africa; the Spring-head thereof unknown till of late. In the Month of June it swells and overflows Egypt. When it rises too high, the Innundation is dangerous, and threatens a Famine. In this River are the monstrous amphibious Animals named Crocodiles, of the same Specie with the late Alligators of the South-Sea, which make a Prey of, and devour all humane Creatures they can lay hold on.

Poor Fools.

One was reckoned a timorous thinking Fool who took Advice of his Reason in the grand Affair.

Despis'd the virtuous Design of propagating and carrying on a Fishery, which can never fail to be a real Benefit to Britain.

Many of just Thinking at that Time were vex'd to see themselves trudging on Foot, when some others of very indifferent Capacities were setting up gilded Equipages; and notwithstanding of all the Doubts they formed against it, yet fretted because they were not so lucky as to have some Shares.

Threw off all the Fetters of Reason, and plung'd gloriously into Confusion.

With Grave Faces many at that Time pretended they could demonstrate this hop'd for Rise of South-Sea.

The Dutch, whom a learned Author of a late Essay has endeavoured to prove to be descended after a strange Manner from the Gaderens; which Essay Lewis the XIV was mightily pleas'd with, and bounteously rewarded the Author.

Feasts them at his own proper Cost; hence the Proverb, 'Tis fair in Ha', where Beards wag a'.

The Fox in the Fable that despised the Plumbs he could not reach, is well known. 100000 Pounds being called a Plumb, make this a right Pun; and some Puns deserve not to be class'd amongst low Wit, tho the Generality of them do.

158

The Prospect of Plenty:

A POEM ON THE North-Sea Fishery,

Inscribed to the Right Honourable the Royal Burrows of Scotland.

------ Βαιω δε ωονω μεγα κερδος οπηδει.
—Opian. Halieutic. Lib. III.

Thalia anes again in blythsome Lays,
In Lays immortal chant the North-Sea's Praise.
Tent how the Caledonians lang supine,
Begin, mair wise, to open baith their Een;
And as they ought, t'imploy that Store which Heav'n
In sic Abundance to their Hands has given.
Sae heedless Heir, born to a Lairdship wide,
That yields mair Plenty than he kens to guide;
Not well acquainted with his ain good Luck,
Lets ilka sneaking Fellow take a Pluck;
Till at the Lang-run, wi' a Heart right sair,
He sees the Bites grow bein, as he grows bare:
Then wak'ning, looks about with glegger Glour,
And learns to thrive, wha ne'er thought on't before.

Nae Nation in the Warld can parallel
The plenteous Product of this happy Isle:

159

But Past'ral Heights, and sweet prolifick Plains,
That can at Will command the saftest Strains.
Stand yont; for Amphitrite claims our Sang,
Wha round fair Thule drives her finny Thrang,
O'er Shaws of Coral, and the Pearly Sands,
To Scotia's smoothest Lochs and Christal Strands.
There keeps the Tyrant Pike his awfu' Court,
Here Trouts and Salmond in clear Channels sport.
Wae to that Hand, that dares by Day or Night
Defile the Stream where sporting Fries delight.
But Herrings, lovely Fish, like best to play
In rowan Ocean, or the open Bay:
In Crouds amazing thro the Waves they shine,
Millions on Millions form ilk equal Line:
Nor dares th'imperial Whale, unless by Stealth,
Attack their firm united Common-wealth.
But artfu' Nets, and Fishers' wylie Skill,
Can bring the scaly Nations to their Will.
When these retire to Caverns of the Deep,
Or in their oozy Beds thro' Winter sleep,
Then shall the tempting Bait, and stented String,
Beguile the Cod, the Sea-Cat, Tusk, and Ling.
Thus may our Fishery thro' a' the Year
Be still imploy'd, t'increase the publick Gear.

Delytfou' Labour, where the Industrious gains
Profit surmounting ten Times a' his Pains.
Nae Pleasure like Success; then Lads stand be,
Ye'll find it endless in the Northern-Sea.
O'er lang with empty Brag we have been vain
Of toom Dominion on the plenteous Main,
While others ran away with a' the Gain.

160

Thus proud Iberia vaunts of sov'reign Sway
O'er Countries rich, frae Rise to Set of Day;
She grasps the Shadow, but the Substance tines,
While a' the rest of Europe milk her Mines.

But dawns the Day sets Britain on her Feet,
Lang look'd for's come at last, and welcome be't:
For numerous Fleets shall hem Æbudan Rocks,
Commanding Seas, with Rowth to raise our Stocks.
Nor can this be a toom Chimera found,
The Fabrick's bigget on the surest Ground.
Sma is our need to toil on foreign Shores,
When we have baith the Indies at our Doors.
Yet, for Diversion, laden Vessels may
To far aff Nations cut the liquid Way;
And fraught frae ilka Port what's nice or braw,
While for their Trifles we maintain them a'.
Goths, Vandals, Gauls, Hesperians, and the Moors,
Shall a' be treated frae our happy Shores:
The rantin Germans, Russians, and the Poles,
Shall feast with Pleasure on our gusty Sholes:
For which deep in their Treasures we shall dive:
Thus, by fair Trading, North-Sea Stock shall thrive.

Sae far the bonny Prospect gave delight,
The warm Ideas gart the Muse take Flight:
When straight a Grumbletonian appears,
Peghing fou sair beneath a Lade of Fears:
“Wow! That's braw News, quoth he, to make Fools fain,
“But gin ye be nae Warluck, How d'ye ken?
“Does Tam the Rhimer spae oughtlins of this?
“Or do ye prophesy just as ye wish?

161

“Will Projects thrive in this abandon'd Place?
“Unsonsy we had ne'er sae meikle Grace.
“I fear, I fear, your towring Aim fa' short,
“Alake we winn o'er far frae King and Court?
“The Southerns will with Pith your Project bauk,
“They'll never thole this great Design to tak.

Thus do the Dubious ever countermine,
With Party wrangle, ilka fair Design.
How can a Saul that has the Use of Thought,
Be to sic little creeping Fancies brought?
Will Britain's King or Parliament gainstand
The universal Profit of the Land?
Now when nae sep'rate Interest eags to Strife,
The antient Nations join'd like Man and Wife,
Maun study closs for Peace and Thriving's sake,
Aff a' the wissen'd Leaves of Spite to shake:
Let's weave and fish to ane anither's Hands,
And never mind wha serves or wha commands;
But baith alike consult the Common Weal,
Happy that Moment Friendship makes us leal
To Truth and Right,—Then springs a shining Day,
Shall Clouds of sma' Mistakes drive fast away.
Mistakes and private Int'rest hence be gane,
Mind what ye did on dire Pharsalia's Plain,
Where doughty Romans were by Romans slain.

A meaner phantom neist, with meikle Dread,
Attacks with senseless Fears the weaker Head.
“The Dutch, say they, will strive your Plot to stap,
“They'll toom their Banks before you reap their Crap:
“Lang have they ply'd that Trade like bisy Bees,
“And suck'd the Profit of the Pictland Seas,
“Thence Riches fish'd mair by themselves confest,
“Than e'er they made by India's East and West.

O mighty fine, and greatly was it spoke!
Maun bauld Britannia bear Batavia's Yoke?

162

May she not open her ain Pantry-door,
For fear the paughty State shou'd gi'e a Roar?
Dare she nane of her Herrings sel or prive,
Afore she say, Dear Matkie wi' ye'r leave?
Curse on the Wight wha tholes a Thought sae tame,
He merits not the manly Briton's Name.
Grant they're good Allies, yet it's hardly wise,
To buy their Friendship at sae high a Price.
But frae that Airth we needna fear great Skaith,
These People, right auldfaran, will be laith
To thwart a Nation, wha with Ease can draw
Up ilka Sluce they have, and drown them a'.

Ah slothfu' Pride! a Kingdom's greatest Curse,
How dowf looks Gentry with an empty Purse?
How worthless is a poor and haughty Drone,
Wha thowless stands a lazy Looker on?
While active Sauls a stagnant Life despise,
Still ravish'd with new Pleasures as they rise.
O'er lang, in Troth, have we By-standers been,
And loot Fowk lick the White out of our Een:
Nor can we wyt them, since they had our Vote;
But now they'se get the Wistle of their Groat.

Here did the Muse intend a while to rest,
Till hame o'er spitefu' Din her Lugs opprest;
Anither Sett of the envyfou Kind
(With narrow Notions horridly confin'd)
Wag their boss Noddles; syne with silly Spite
Land ilka worthy Project in a Bite.
They force with aukward Girn their Ridicule,
And ca' ilka ane concern'd a simple Fool,
Excepting some, wha a' the leave will nick,
And gie them nought but bare Whop-shafts to lick.

163

Malicious Envy! Root of a' Debates,
The Plague of Government and Bane of States;
The Nurse of positive destructive Strife,
Fair Friendship's Fae, which sowrs the Sweets of Life;
Promoter of Sedition and base Fead,
Still overjoy'd to see a Nation bleed.
Stap, stap, my Lass , forgetna where ye'r gawn,
If ye rin on, Heav'n kens where ye may land;
Turn to your Fishers Sang, and let Fowk ken
The North-Sea Skippers are leal-hearted Men,
Vers'd in the critick Seasons of the Year,
When to ilk Bay the Fishing-Bush should steer;
There to hawl up with Joy the plenteous Fry,
Which on the Decks in shining Heaps shall ly;
Till carefou Hands, even while they've vital Heat,
Shall be employ'd to save their Juices sweet:
Strick Tent they'll tak to stow them wi' strang Brine,
In Barrels tight, that shall nae Liquor tine;
Then in the foreign Markets we shall stand
With upright Front, and the first Sale demand.
This, this our faithfou Trustees have in View,
And honourably will the Task Pursue:
Nor are they bigging Castles in a Cloud,
Their Ships already into Action scud.

Now, dear ill-naturd Billies, say nae mair,
But leave the Matter to their prudent Care:
They're Men of Candor, and right well they wate
That Truth and Honesty hads lang the Gate:

164

Shouder to Shouder let's stand firm and stout,
And there's nae Fear but well soon make it out;
We've Reason, Law, and Nature on our Side,
And have nae Bars, but Party, Slowth, and Pride.

When a's in Order, as it soon will be,
And Fleets of Bushes fill the Northern-Sea,
What hopefou' Images with Joy arise,
In Order rang'd before the Muse's Eyes?
A Wood of Masts,—well mann'd,—, their jovial Din,
Like eydent Bees gawn out and coming in.
Here haff a Nation, healthfou, wise, and stark,
With Spirits only tint for want of Wark,
Shall now find Place their Genius to exert,
While in the common Good they act their Part.
These, fit for Servitude, shall bear a Hand,
And these find Government form'd for Command.
Besides, this as a Nursery shall breed
Stout skill'd Marines, when Britains Navies need.
Pleas'd with their Labour, when their Task is done,
They'll leave green Thetis to embrace the Sun:
Then freshest Fish shall on the Brander Bleez,
And lend the bisy Browster-wife a Heez:
While healthfou Hearts shall own their honest Flame,
With reaming Quaff, and whomelt to her Name,
Whase active Motion to his Heart did reach,
As she the Cods was turning on the Beech.
Curs'd Poortith, Love, and Hymen's deadly Fae,
(Thar gars young Fowk in Prime cry aft, Oh hey,
And single live, till Age and Runkles shaw
Their canker'd Spirit's good for nought at a';)
Now flit your Camp, far frae our Confines scour,
Our Lads and Lasses soon shall slight your Power;

165

For Rowth shall cherish Love, and Love shall bring
Mae Men t'improve the Soil and serve the King.
Thus universal Plenty shall produce
Strength to the State, and Arts for Joy and Use.

O plenty, thou Delyt of great and sma,
Thou nervous Sinnow of baith War and Law:
The Statesman's Drift, Spur to the Artist's Skill,
Nor does the very Flamens like thee ill;
The shabby Poet hate thee! That's a Lye,
Or else they are nae of a Mind wi' me.

Plenty shall cultivate ilk Scawp and Moor,
Now Lee and bare, because the Landlord's poor.
On scroggy Braes shall Akes and Ashes grow,
And bonny Gardens clead the brecken How.
Does others backward dam the raging Main,
Raising on barren Sands a flowry Plain?
By us then shou'd the Thought o't be endur'd,
To let braid Tracts of Land ly unmanur'd?
Uncultivate nae mair they shall appear,
But shine with a' the Beauties of the Year;
Which start with Ease frae the obedient Soil,
And ten Times o'er reward a little Toil.

Alang wild Shores, where tumbling Billows break,
Plenisht with nought but Shells and Tangle-Wreck,
Braw Towns shall rise, with Steeples mony a ane,
And Houses bigget a' with Estler Stane:
Where Schools polite shall lib'ral Arts display,
And make auld barb'rous Darkness fly away.

166

Now Nereus rising frae his watry Bed,
The Pearly Drops hap down his lyart Head;
Oceanus with Pleasure hears him sing,
Tritons and Nereids form a jovial Ring;
And dancing on the deep, Attention draw,
While a' the Winds in Love, but sighing, blaw.
The Sea-born Prophet sang in sweetest Strain,
“Britons be blyth, fair Queen of Isles be fain;
“A richer People never saw the Sun:
“Gang tightly throw what fairly you've begun;
“Spread a' your Sails and Streamers in the Wind,
“For ilka Power in Sea and Air's your Friend;
“Great Neptune's unexhausted Bank has Store
“Of endless Wealth, will gar yours a' run o'er.”
He sang sae loud, round Rocks the Echoes flew,
'Tis true, he said; they are return'd, 'tis true.

September 1720.

The Wife of Neptune.

The Northern Islands of Scotland are allow'd by all to be the Thule of the Antients.

There are Acts of Parliament, which severely prohibite steeping of Lint, or any other Way defiling these clear Rivers where Salmond abound.

Spain.

The Lews, and other Western Islands.

Thomas Learmond, alias the Rhimer, liv'd in the Reign of Alexander III. King of Scots, and is held in great Esteem by the Vulgar for his dark Predictions.

This Phrase is always applied when People with Pretence of Friendship, do you an ill Turn, as one licking a Mote out of your Eye makes it Bloodshot.

The Muse.

The Managers.

'Tis a vast Advantage to cure them immediately after they are taken.

Foreign Salt.

Several large Ships are already imploy'd, and took in their Salt and Barrels a Month ago.

Holds long up its Head, longest keeps the high Way or Gate.

The Beech is a Number of big Stones, where they dry the Cod and Ling.

Priests.

The Dutch have gain'd a great Deal from the Sea.

167

SCOTS SONGS.

Spoken to Mrs. N.

A poem wrote without a Thought,
By Notes may to a Song be brought,
Tho Wit be scarce, low the Design,
And Numbers lame in ev'ry Line:
But when fair Christy this shall sing
In Consort with the trembling String,
O then the Poet's often prais'd,
For Charms so sweet a Voice hath rais'd.

MARY SCOT.

Happy's the love which meets Return,
When in soft Flames Souls equal burn;
But Words are wanting to discover
Torments of a hopeless Lover.
Ye Registers of Heav'n relate,
If looking o'er the Rolls of Fate,
Did you there see mark'd for my Marrow
Mary Scot the Flower of Yarrow.

Ah no! Her Form's too heavenly fair,
Her Love the Gods above must share,
While Mortals with Despair explore her,
And at Distance due adore her.

168

O lovely Maid! my Doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a Smile;
Alace! if not, you'll soon debar a
Sighing Swain the Banks of Yarrow.

Be hush ye Fears, I'll not despair,
My Mary's tender as she's fair;
Then I'll go tell her all mine Anguish;
She is too good to let me languish;
With Success crown'd I'll not envy
The Folks who dwell above the Sky,
When Mary Scot's become my Marrow,
We'll make a Paradice on Yarrow.

O'er BOGIE.

I will awa' wi my Love,
I will awa' wi' her,
Tho a' my Kin had sworn and said,
I'll o'er Bogie wi' her.
If I can get but her Consent,
I dinna care a Strae,
Tho ilka ane be discontent,
Awa' wi' her I'll gae.
I will awa', &c.

For now she's Mistress of my Heart,
And wordy of my Hand,
And well I wat we shanna part,
For Siller or for Land.
Let Rakes delyte to swear and drink,
And Beaus admire fine Lace,
But my chief Pleasure is to blink
On Betty's bonny Face.
I will awa', &c.

169

There a' the Beauties do combine
Of Colour, Treats and Air,
The Saul that sparkles in her Een
Makes her a Jewel rare;
Her flowing Wit gives shining Life
To a' her other Charms,
How blest I'll be when she's my Wife,
And lockt up in my Arms.
I will awa', &c.

There blythly will I rant and sing,
While o'er her Sweets I range,
I'll cry, Your humble Servant King,
Shamefa' them that wa'd change
A Kiss of Betty and a Smile,
Abeet ye wa'd lay down
The Right ye ha'e to Britain's Isle,
And offer me ye'r Crown.
I will awa', &c.

O'er the Moor to MAGGY.

And I'll o'er the Moor to Maggy,
Her Wit and Sweetness call me,
Then to my Fair I'll show my Mind,
Whatever may befal me.
If she love Mirth, I'll learn to sing,
Or likes the Nine to follow,
I'll lay my Lugs in Pindus' Spring,
And invocate Apollo.

If she admire a martial Mind,
I'll sheath my Limbs in Armour;
If to the softer Dance inclin'd,
With gayest Airs I'll charm her;

170

If she love Grandeur, Day and Night
I'll plot my Nations Glory.
Find Favour in my Prince's Sight,
And shine in future Story.

Beauty can Wonders work with Ease,
Where Wit is corresponding,
And bravest Men know best to please,
With Complaisance abounding.
My bonny Maggy's Love can turn
Me to what Shape she pleases,
If in her Breast that Flame shall burn
Which in my Bosom bleezes.

I'll never leave Thee.

JONNY.
Tho' for seven Years and mair Honour shou'd reave me,
To Fields where Cannons rair, thou need na grieve thee;
For deep in my Spirit thy Sweets are indented,
And love shall preserve ay what Love has imprinted.
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee,
Gang the World as it will, Dearest believe me.

NELLY.
O Jonny I'm jealous, when e'er ye discover
My Sentiments yielding, ye'll turn a loose Rover;
And nought i' the Warld wa'd vex my Heart sairer,
If you prove unconstant, and fancy ane fairer.
Grieve me, grieve me, Oh it wad grieve me!
A' the lang Night and Day, if you deceive me.

171

JONNY.
My Nelly let never sic Fancies oppress ye,
For while my Blood's warm I'll kindly caress ye,
Your blooming saft Beauties first beeted Love's Fire,
Your Virtue and Wit make it ay flame the hyer:
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee,
Gang the Warld as it will, Dearest believe me.

NELLY.
Then Jonny I frankly this Minute allow ye
To think me your Mistress, for Love gars me trow ye,
And gin ye prove fa'se, to ye'r sel be it said then,
Ye'll win but sma' Honour to wrang a kind Maiden.
Reave me, reave me, Heav'ns! it wad reave me,
Of my Rest Night and Day, if ye deceive me.

JONNY.
Bid Iceshogles hammer red Gauds on the Study,
And fair Simmer Mornings nae mair appear ruddy;
Bid Britons think ae Gate, and when they obey ye,
But never till that Time, believe I'll betray ye:
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee;
The Starns shall gang withershins e'er I deceive thee.

Polwart on the Green.

At Polwart on the Green
If you'll meet me the Morn,
Where Lasses de conveen
To dance about the Thorn;

172

A kindly Welcome you shall meet
Frae her wha likes to view
A Lover and a Lad complete,
The Lad and Lover you.

Let dorty Dames say Na,
As lang as e'er they please,
Seem caulder than the Sna',
While inwardly they bleeze;
But I will frankly shaw my Mind,
And yield my Heart to thee;
Be ever to the Captive kind,
That langs na to be free.

At Polwart on the Green,
Among the new mawn Hay,
With Sangs and Dancing keen
We'll pass the heartsome Day,
At Night if Beds be o'er thrang laid,
And thou be twin'd of thine,
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear Lad,
To take a Part of mine.

JOHN HAY'S Bonny Lassie.

By smooth winding Tay a Swain was reclining,
Aft cry'd he, Oh hey! Maun I still live pining
My sell thus away, and darna discover
To my bonny Hay that I am her Lover.

Nae mair it will hide, the Flame waxes stranger,
If she's not my Bride, my Days are nae langer;
Then I'll take a Heart, and try at a Venture,
May be e'er we part my Vows may content her.

173

She's fresh as the Spring, and sweet as Aurora,
When Birds mount and sing bidding Day a Good-morrow.
The Sward of the Mead enamel'd with Daisies,
Look wither'd and dead when twin'd of her Graces.

But if she appear where Verdures invite her,
The Fountains run clear, and Flowers smell the Sweeter,
'Tis Heav'n to be by, when her Wit is a flowing,
Her Smiles and bright Eye set my Spirits a glowing.

The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded,
Struck dumb with Amaze, my Mind is confounded;
I'm all in a Fire, dear Maid, to caress ye,
For a' my Desire is Hay's bonny Lassie.

Genty Tibby and Sonsy Nelly.

[_]

To the Tune of Tibby Fowler in the Glen.

Tibby has a Store of Charms,
Her genty Shape our Fancy warms,
How starkly can her sma' white Arms
Fetter the Lad wha looks but at her;
Frae Ancle to her slender Waste,
These Sweets conceal'd invite to dawt her,
Her rosie Cheek and rising Breast,
Gar ane's Mouth gush bowt fou' o' Water.

Nelly's gawsy, saft and gay,
Fresh as the lucken Flowers in May,
Ilk ane that sees her cries Ah hey!
She's bonny, O I wonder at her!

174

The Dimples of her Chin and Cheek,
And Limbs sae plump invite to dawt her,
Her Lips sae sweet, and Skin sae sleek,
Gar mony Mouths beside mine water.

Now strike my Finger in a Bore,
My Wyson with the Maiden shore,
Gin I can tell whilk I am for
When these twa Stars appear thegether.
O Love! Why dost thou gi'e thy Fires
Sae large? while we're oblig'd to nither
Our spacious Sauls immense Desires,
And ay be in a hankerin Swither.

Tibby's Shape and Airs are fine,
And Nelly's Beauties are divine;
But since they canna baith be mine,
Ye Gods give Ear to my Petition,
Provide a good Lad for the tane,
But let it be with this Provision,
I get the other to my lane,
In Prospect plano and Fruition.

Up in the Air.

Now the Sun's gane out o' Sight,
Beet the Ingle, and snuff the Light:
In Glens the Fairies skip and dance,
And Witches wallop o'er to France,
Up in the Air
On my bonny grey Mare.
And I see her yet, and I see her yet,
Up in, &c.

175

The Wind's drifting Hail and Sna'
O'er frozen Hags like a Foot Ba',
Nae Starns keek throw the Azure Slit,
'Tis cauld and mirk as ony Pit,
The Man i' the Moon
Is carowsing aboon,
D'ye see, d'ye see, d'ye see him yet.
The Man, &c.

Take your Glass to clear your Een,
'Tis the Elixir hales the Spleen,
Baith Wit and Mirth it will inspire,
And gently puffs the Lover's Fire,
Up in the Air,
It drives away Care,
Ha'e wi' ye, ha'e wi' ye, and ha'e wi' ye Lads yet,
Up in, &c.

Steek the Doors, keep out the Frost,
Come Willy gi'es about ye'r Tost,
Til't Lads, and lilt it out,
And let us ha'e a blythsom Bowt,
Up wi't there, there,
Dinna cheat, but drink fair,
Huzza, Huzza, and Huzza Lads yet,
Up wi't, &c.

176

THE RISE and FALL OF STOCKS, 1720.

An Epistle to the Right Honourable my Lord Ramsay, now in Paris.

Your Pettifoggers damn their Souls!
To share with Knaves in cheating Fools,
And Merchants vent'ring on the Main
Slight Pirates, Rocks, and Horns for Gain.
Hudibras.

My Lord,

Withoutten Preface or Preamble,
My Fancy being on the Ramble;
Transported with an honest Passion,
Viewing our poor bambouzl'd Nation,
Biting her Nails, her Knuckles wringing,
Her Cheek sae blae, her Lip sae hinging;
Grief and Vexation's like to kill her,
For tyning baith her Tick and Siller.

177

Allow me then to make a Comment
On this Affair of greatest Moment
Which has fa'n out, my Lord, since ye
Left Lothian and the Edge-well Tree:
And, with your Leave, I needna stickle
To say we're in a sorry Pickle,
Since Poortith o'er ilk Head does hover
Frae John a Groat's House , South to Dover.
Sair have we pelted been with Stocks,
Casting our Credit at the Cocks.
Lang guilty of the highest Treason
Against the Government of Reason;
We madly at our ain Expences,
Stock-job'd away our Cash and Senses.

As little Bairns frae Winnocks hy
Drap down Saip Bells to waiting Fry,
Wha run and wrestle for the Prize,
With Face erect and watchfou' Eyes;
The Lad wha gleggest waits upon it,
Receives the Bubble on his Bonnet,
Views with Delight the shining Beau-thing,
Which in a Twinkling bursts to Nothing.
Sae Britain brought on a' her Troubles,
By running daftly after Bubles.

Impos'd on by langnebit Juglers,
Stock-Jobbers, Brokers, cheating Smuglers,
Wha set their Gowden Girns sae wylie,
Tho ne'er sae cautious they'd beguile ye.
The covetous Infatuation
Was smittle out o'er a' the Nation,

178

Clergy and Lawyers and Physicians,
Mechanicks, Merchants, and Musicians;
Baith Sexes of a' Sorts and Sizes
Drap'd ilk Design and jobb'd for Prizes.
Frae Noblemen to Livery Varlets,
Frae topping Toasts to Hackney Harlots.
Poetick Dealers were but scarce,
Less browden still on Cash than Verse;
Only ae Bard to Coach did mount
By singing Praise to Sir John Blount;
But since his mighty Patron fell,
He looks just like Jock Blunt himsel.

Some Lords and Lairds sell'd Riggs and Castles,
And play'd them aff with tricky Rascals,
Wha now with Routh of Riches vapour,
While their late Honours live on Paper.
But ah! the Difference 'twixt good Land,
And a poor Bankrupt Bubble's Band.

Thus Europeans Indians rifle,
And give them for their Gowd some Trifle;
As Deugs of Velvet, Chips of Christal,
A Falcon's Bell, or Baubie Whistle.

Merchants and Bankers Heads gade wrang,
They thought to Millions they might spang;
Despis'd the virtuous Road to Gain,
And look'd on little Bills with Pain:
The well win Thousands of some Years,
In ae big Bargain disappears.
'Tis sair to bide, but wha can help it,
Instead of Coach, on Foot they skelp it.

179

The Ten per Cents wha durstna venture,
But lent great Sums upon Indenture,
To Billies wha as frankly war'd it,
As they out of their Guts had spar'd it,
When craving Money they have lent,
They're answer'd, Item, A' is spent.
The Miser hears him with a Gloom,
Girns like a Brock and bites his Thumb,
Syne shores to grip him by the Wyson,
And keep him a' his Days in Prison.
Sae may ye do, replies the Debter,
But that can never mend the Matter:
As soon can I mount Charle-wain,
As pay ye back your Gear again.
Poor Mouldy rins quite by himsel,
And bans like ane broke loose frae Hell.
It lulls a wee my Mullygrubs,
To think upon these bitten Scrubs,
When naething saves their vital Low,
But the Expences of a Tow.

Thus Children oft with carefu' Hands,
In Summer dam up little Strands,
Collect the Drizel to a Pool,
In which their glowing Limbs they cool;
Till by comes some ill-deedy Gift,
Wha in the Bulwark makes a Rift,
And with ae Strake in Ruins lays,
The work of Use, Art, Care and Days.

Even Handy-crafts-men too turn'd saucy,
And maun be Coaching't thro' the Causy;
Syne stroot fou paughty in the Alley,
Transferring Thousands with some Valley:

180

Grow rich in Fancy, treat their Whore,
Nor mind they were, or shall be poor.
Like little Joves they treat the Fair,
With Gowd frae Banks built in the Air;
For which their Danaes lift the Lap,
And compliment them with a Clap,
Which by aft jobbing grows a Pox,
Till Brigs of Noses fa' with Stocks.

Here Coachmen, Grooms, or Pasment Trotter,
Glitter'd a while, then turn'd to Snoter:
Like a shot Starn, that thro' the Air
Skyts East or West with unko Glare,
But found neist Day on Hillock Side,
Nae better seems nor Paddock Ride.

Some Reverend Brethren left their Flocks,
And sank their Stipends in the Stocks;
But tining baith, like Æsop's Colly,
O'er late they now lament their Folly.

For three warm Months, May, June, and July,
There was odd scrambling for the Spulzy;
And mony a ane, till he grew tyr'd,
Gather'd what Gear his Heart desir'd.
We thought that Dealer's Stock an ill ane,
That was not wordy haf a Million.
O had this Golden Age but lasted,
And no sae soon been broke and blasted,
There is a Person well I ken
Might wi' the best gane right far ben;
His Project better had succeeded,
And far less Labour had he needed:

181

But 'tis a Daffin to debate,
And aurgle-bargain with our Fate.
Well, had this Gowden Age but lasted,
And no so soon been broke and blasted,
O wow, my Lord, these had been Days
Which might have claim'd your Poet's Lays;
But soon alake! the mighty Dagon
Was seen to fa' without a Rag on.
In Harvest was a dreadfu' Thunder,
Which gart a' Britain glowr and wonder;
The phizzing Bowt came with a Blatter,
And dry'd our great Sea to a Gutter.

But mony Fowk with Wonder speir,
What can become of a' the Gear?
For a' the Country is repining,
And ilka ane complains of tining.
Plain Answer I had best let be,
And tell ye just a Similie.

Like Belzie when he nicks a Witch
Wha sells her Sauls she may be rich;
He finding this the Bait to damn her,
Casts o'er her Een his cheating Glamour:
She signs and seals, and he affords
Her Heaps of visionary Hoords;
But when she comes to count the Cunzie,
'Tis a' Sklate-stanes instead of Money.

Thus we've been trick'd with braw Projectors,
And faithfu' managing Directors,
Wha for our Cash, the Saul of Trade,
Bonny Propines of Paper made;
On footing clean, drawn unco' fair,
Had they not vanisht into Air.

182

When South-Sea Tyde was at a Hight,
My Fancy took a daring Flight,
Thalia, lovely Muse, inspired
My Breast, and me with Fore-sight fired;
Rapt into future Months, I sa'
The rich Aerial Babel fa'.
'Yond Seas I saw the Upstarts drifting,
Leaving their Coaches for the lifting.
These Houses fit for Wights gane mad,
I saw cramm'd fou as they cou'd had;
While little Sauls sunk with Despair,
Implor'd cauld Death to end their Care.
But now a sweeter Scene I view,
Time has, and Time shall prove I'm true;
For fair Astrea moves frae Heav'n,
And shortly shall make a' Odds Ev'n.
The honest Man shall be regarded,
And Villains as they ought rewarded.
The setting Moon and rosie Dawn
Bespeak a shining Day at Hand;
A glorious Sun shall soon arise,
To brighten up Britannia's Skies.
Our King and Senate shall engage
To drive the Vultures off the Stage:
Trade then shall flourish, and ilk Art,
A lively Vigour shall impart
To Credit languishing and famisht,
And Lombard-street shall be replenisht.
Got safe ashore after this Blast,
Britons shall smile at Follies past.

God grant your Lordship Joy and Health,
Lang Days and Rowth of real Wealth;
Safe to the Land of Cakes Heav'n send ye,
And frae cross Accidents defend ye.

Edinb. March 25, 1721.

An Oak Tree which grows on the Side of a fine Spring, nigh the Castle of Dalhousie, very much observed by the Country People, who give out, that before any of the Family died, a Branch fell from the Edge-well Tree. The old Tree some few Years ago fell altogether, but another sprung from the same Root, which is now tall and flourishing, and lang be't sae.

The Northmost House in Scotland.

Vide Dick Franklin's Epistle.

This is commonly said of a Person who is out of Countenance at a Disapointment.

Mad, out of his Wits.

A Rogish Boy, who is seldom without doing a bad Action.

Danae the Daughter of Acrisius King of Argos, to whom Jupiter descended in a Shower of Gold.

Meaning my self, with Regard to my printing this Volume by Subscription.

Wealth or the Woody, wrote in the Month of June last.

183

PATIE and PEGIE:

A SANG.

PATIE.
By the delicious Warmness of thy Mouth,
And rowing Eye, which smiling tells the Truth,
I guess, my Lassie, that, as well as I
You're made for Love, and why should ye deny.

PEGIE.
But ken ye, Lad, gin we confess o'er soon,
Ye think us cheap, and syne the Wooing's done:
The Maiden that o'er quickly tines her Power,
Like unripe Fruit, will taste but hard and sowr.

PATIE.
But when they hing o'er lang upon the Tree,
Their Sweetness they may tine, and sae may ye:
Red Cheeked you completely ripe appear,
And I have thol'd, and woo'd a lang haff Year.

PEGIE.
Then dinna pou me; gently thus I fa'
Into my Patie's Arms for good and a':
But stint your Wishes to this frank Embrace,
And mint nae farrer till we've got the Grace.

184

PATIE.
O charming Armfou! Hence ye Cares away,
I'll kiss my Treasure a' the live lang Day;
A' Night I'll dream my Kisses o'er again,
Till that Day come, that ye'll be a' my ain.

CHORUS.
Sun gallop down the Westlin Skyes,
Gang soon to Bed, and quickly rise;
O lash ye'r Steeds, post Time away,
And haste about our Bridel-Day;
And if ye'r weary'd, honest Light,
Sleep gin ye like a Week that Night.

PROLOGUE. Spoke by one of the young Gentlemen, who, for their Improvement and Diversion, acted The Orphan, and Cheats of Scapin, the last Night of the year 1719.

Braw Lads, and bonny Lasses, welcome here,—
But wha's to entertain ye,—never speer.—
Quietness is best.—Tho we be leal and true,
Good Sense and Wit's mair than we dare avow.—
Some Body says to some Fowk, We're to blame,
That 'tis a Scandal and black-burning Shame
To thole young Callands thus to grow sae snack,

185

And lear—O mighty Crimes!—to speak and act.—
Stage-Plays, quoth Dunce, are unco' Things indeed!
He said,—he gloom'd,—and shook his thick boss Head.
They're Papery, Papery!—cry'd his Nibour neist,
Contriv'd at Rome by some malignant Priest,
To witch away Fowks Minds frae doing well,
As saith Rab Ker , M'Millan and M'Neil.

But let them tauk.—In Spite of ilk Cadaver,
We'll cherish Wit, and scorn their Fead or Favour;
We'll strive to bring in active Eloquence,
Tho for a while upon our Fame's Expence.—
I'm wrang.—Our Fame will mount with metled Carles,
And for the rest, we'll be aboon their Snarls.—
Knock down the Fools, wha dare with empty Rage
Spit in the Face of Virtue and the Stage.
'Cause Hereticks in Pulpits thump and rair,
Must naithing orthodox b' expected there;
Because a Rump cut off a Royal Head,
Must not anither Parli'ment succeed.
Thus tho the Drama's aft debauch'd and rude,
Must we, for some are bad, refuse the good:
Answer me that,—If there be ony Log,
That's come to keek upon us here incog,
Anes,—Twice, Thrice.—But now I think on't, stay,
I've something else to do, and must away.—
This Prologue was design'd for Use and Sport,
The Chiel that made it, let him answer for't.

One who puts the canting Phrase of M'Millan and M'Neil (two nonconforming Hill Preachers) into wretched Rhime.

186

The Life and Acts of, or An ELEGY on PATIE BIRNIE

The Famous Fidler of Kinghorn;
Who gart the Lieges gawff and girn ay,
Aft till the Cock proclaim'd the Morn:
Tho baith his Weeds and Mirth were pirny,
He roos'd these Things were langest worn,
The brown Ale Barrel was his Kirn ay,
And faithfully he toom'd his Horn.

And then besides his valliant Acts,
At Bridals he wan mony Placks.
Hab. Simpson.

In Sonnet slee the Man I sing,
His rare Engine in Rhyme shall ring,
Wha slaid the Stick out o'er the String
With sic an Art;
Wha sang sae sweetly to the Spring,
And rais'd the Heart.

187

Kinghorn may rue the ruefou Day
That lighted Patie to his Clay,
Wha gart the hearty Billies stay
And spend their Cash,
To see his Snowt, to hear him play,
And gab sae gash.

When Strangers landed , wow sae thrang
Fuffin and peghing he wa'd gang
And cave their Pardon that sae lang
He'd been a coming;
Syne his Bread-winner out he'd bang,
And fa' to Bumming.

Your Honour's Father dead and gane,
For him he first wa'd make his Mane,
But soon his Face cou'd make ye fain
When he did sough,
O wiltu , wiltu do't again!
And gran'd and leugh.

This Sang he made frae his ain Head,
And eke The auld Man's Mare she's dead,
Tho Peets and Tures and a's to lead,
O fy upon her!
A bonny auld Thing this indeed,
An't like ye'r Honour.

188

After ilk Tune he took a Sowp,
And bann'd wi' Birr the corky Cowp,
That to the Papists Country scowp,
To lear Ha ha's,
Frae Chiels that sing Hap, Stap, and Lowp,
Wantin the B---s.

That beardless Capons are na Men,
We by their fozie Springs might ken;
But ours he said cou'd Vigiour Ien'
To Men o' Weir,
And gar them stout to Battle sten'
Withoutten Fear.

How first he practis'd, ye shall hear,
The Harn-pan of an umquhile Mare,
He strung, and strak Sounds saft and clear,
Out o' the Pow,
Which fir'd his Saul, and gart his Ear
With Gladness glow.

Sae some auld-gabet Poets tell,
Jove's nimble Son and Leckie snell
Made the first Fiddle of a Shell,
On which Apollo,
With melkle Pleasure Play'd himsel
Baith Jig and Solo.

O Jonny Stocks what comes o' thee,
I'm sure thou'lt break thy Heart and die;
Thy Birnie gane, thou'lt never be
Nor blyth nor able
To shake thy short Houghs merrily
Upon a Table.

189

How pleasant was't to see thee didle,
And dance sae finely to his Fiddle,
With Nose forgainst a Lass's Midle,
And briskly brag,
With cutty Steps to ding their Striddle,
And gar them fag.

He catch'd a crishy Webster Loun
At runkling o' his Deary's Gown,
And wi' a Rung came o'er his Crown,
For being there;
But starker Thrums got Patie down,
And knoost him sair.

Wae worth the Dog, he maist had fell'd him,
Revengfu' Pate aft green'd to geld him,
He aw'd a Mends, and that he tell'd him,
And bann'd to do't,
He took the Tid, and fairly sell'd him
For a Recruit.

Pate was a Carle of canny Sense,
And wanted ne'er a right bein Spence,
And laid up Dollars in Defence
'Gainst Eild and Gout,
Well judging Gear in future Tense
Cou'd stand for Wit.

Yet prudent Fowk may take the Pet;
Anes thrawart Porter wadna let
Him in while Latter-meat was het,
He gaw'd fou sair,
Flang in his Fiddle o'er the Yet,
Whilk ne'er did mair.

190

But Profit may arise frae Loss,
Sae Pate gat Comfort by his Cross:
Soon as he wan within the Closs,
He dously drew in
Mair Gear frae ilka gentle Goss
Than bought a new ane.

When lying bedfast sick and sair,
To Parish Priest he promis'd fair,
He ne'er wad drink fou ony mair:
But hale and tight,
He prov'd the Auld-man to a Hair,
Strute ilka Night.

The hally Dad with Care essays
To wile him frae his wanton Ways,
And tell'd him of his Promise twice:
Pate answer'd cliver,
“Wha tents what People raving says
“When in a Fever.

At Bothwell-Brig he gade to fight,
But being wise as he was wight,
He thought it shaw'd a Saul but slight,
Dauftly to stand,
And let Gun-powder wrang his Sight,
Or Fidle-Hand.

Right pawkily he left the Plain,
Nor o'er his Shoulder look'd again,
But scour'd o'er Moss and Moor amain,
To Rieky straight,
And tald how mony Whigs were slain
Before they faught.

191

Sae I've lamented Patie's End;
But least your Grief o'er far extend,
Come dight your Cheeks, ye'r Brows unbend,
And lift ye'r Head,
For to a' Britain be it kend
He is not dead.

January 25. 1721.

When a Piece of Stuff is wrought unequally, Part coarse, and Part fine, of Yarn of different Colours, we call it pirny, from the Pirn, or little hollow Reed which holds the Yarn in the Shuttle.

It was his Custom to watch when Strangers went into a publick House, and attend them, pretending they had sent for him, and that he could not get away sooner from other Company.

It was his first Compliment to one (tho he had never perhaps seen him, nor any of his Predecessors) That well he kend his Honour's Father, and been merry with him, and an excellent Good-fellow he was.

Shewing a very particular Comicalness in his Looks and Gestures, laughing and groaning at the same time, he plays, sings, and breaks in with some quire Tale twice or thrice e'er be get through the Tune. His Beard is no small Addition to the Diversion.

The name of a Tune he play'd on all Occasions.

He boasted of being Poet as well as Musician.

Curs'd strongly the light headed Fellows who run to Italy to learn soft Musick.

Tuque Testudo, resonare seplem
Callida nervis.

HORACE.

A Man of a low Stature, but very broad, a loving Friend of his, who used to dance to his Musick.

Good Store of Provision, the Spence being a little Apartment for Meal, Flesh, &c.

This happened in the Duke of Rothess's Time; His Grace was giving an Entertainment, and Patrick being deny'd Entry by the Servants, he either from a cunning View of the lucky Consequence, or in a Passion, did what's described.

Upon Clyde, where the famous Battle was fought, Anno 1679, for the Determination of some kittle Points. But I dare not assert that it was Religion carried my Heroe to the Field.

CUPID thrown into the South-Sea.

Myrtilla , as like Venus' sell
As e'er an Egg was like anither,
Anes Cupid met upon the Mall,
And took her for his bonny Mither.

He wing'd his Way up to her Breast;
She started, he cry'd, Mam 'tis me;
The Beauty, in o'er rash a Jest,
Flang the Arch-Gytling in South-Sea.

Frae thence he raise wi' guilded wings,
His Bow and Shafts to Gowd were chang'd;
Deel's i' the Sea, quoth he, it dings;
Syne back to Mall and Park he rang'd.

Breathing Mischief, the God look'd gurly,
With Transfers a' his Darts were feather'd;
He made a horrid hurly burly,
Where Beaus and Belles were thickest gather'd.

He tentily Myrtilla sought,
And in the thrang Change-Alley got her;
He drew his Bow, and quick as Thought
With a braw new Subscription shot her.

192

THE SATYR'S COMICK PROJECT For recovering A young Bankrupt Stock-jobber.

A SONG.

On the Shore of a low ebbing Sea,
A sighing young Jobber was seen
Staring wishfully at an old Tree
Which grew on the neighbouring Green.
There's a Tree that can finish the Strife
And Disorder that warrs in my Breast,
What need one be pain'd with his Life,
When a Halter can purchase him rest?

Sometimes he would stamp and look wild,
Then roar out a terrible Curse
On Bubbles that had him beguil'd,
And left ne'er a Doit in his Purse.
A Satyr that wander'd along,
With a Laugh to his Raving reply'd;
The Savage maliciously sung,
And jock'd while the Stockjobber cry'd.

193

To Mountains and Rocks he complain'd,
His Cravat was bath'd with his Tears;
The Satyr drew near like a Friend,
And bid him abandon his Fears.
Said he, Have ye been at the Sea,
And met with a contrary Wind,
That you rail at fair Fortune so free,
Don't blame the poor Goddess she's blind.

Come hold up thy Head foolish Wight,
I'll teach thee the Loss to retrieve;
Observe me this Project aright,
And think not of hanging, but live.
Hecatissa conceited and old,
Affects in her Airs to seem young,
Her Joynture yields Plenty of Gold,
And Plenty of Nonsense her Tongue.

Lay Siege to her for a short Space,
Ne'er mind that she's wrinkl'd or grey;
Extoll her for Beauty and Grace,
And doubt not of gaining the Day.
In Wedlock ye fairly may join,
And when of her Wealth you are sure,
Make free with the old Woman's Coin,
And purchase a sprightly young W---.

From the Beginning to the 20th Line, sing to the Tune of Colin's Complaint.

From the 21st Line, where the Satyr begins to speak to the Tune of The Kirk wad let me be.

194

TO THE MUSICK CLUB.

E'er on old Shinar's Plain the Fortress rose,
Rear'd by those Giants who durst Heav'n oppose;
An universal Language Mankind us'd,
'Till daring Crimes brought Accents more confus'd;
Discord and Jar for Punishment were hurl'd
On Hearts and Tongues of the rebellious World.

The primar Speech with Notes harmonious clear,
Transposing Thought, gave Pleasure to the Ear:
Then Musick in its full Perfection shin'd,
When Man to Man melodious spoke his Mind.

As when a richly fraughted Fleet is lost
In rolling Deeps, far from the ebbing Coast,
Down many Fathoms of the liquid Mass,
The Artist dives in Ark of Oak, or Brass,
Snatches some Ingots of Peruvian Ore,
And with his Prize rejoycing makes the Shore.
Oft this Attempt is made, and much they find:
They swell in Wealth, tho much is left behind.

Amphion's Sons, with Minds elate and bright,
Thus plunge th'unbounded Ocean of Delight,
And daily gain new Stores of pleasing Sounds
To glad the Earth, fixing to Spleen its Bounds;
While vocal Tubes and consort Strings engage
To speak the Dialect of the Golden Age.
Then you whose Symphony of Souls proclaim
Your Kin to Heaven, add to your Country's Fame,

195

And shew that Musick may have as good Fate
In Albion's Glens, as Umbria's green Retreat:
And with Correlli's soft Italian Song
Mix Cowdon Knows, and Winter Nights are long.
Nor should the Martial Pibrough be despis'd,
Own'd and refin'd by you, these shall the more be priz'd.

Each ravisht Ear extolls your Heavenly Art,
Which sooths our Care, and elevates the Heart,
Whilst hoarser Sounds the martial Ardures move,
And liquid Notes invite to Shades and Love.

Hail safe Restorer of distemper'd Minds,
That with Delight the raging Passion binds:
Extatick Concord only banisht Hell,
Most perfect where the perfect Beings dwell.
Long may our Youth attend thy charming Rites,
Long may they relish thy transporting Sweets.

Wine and Musick, an ODE.

SYMON.
O Colin how dull is't to be,
When a Soul is sinking wi' Pain,
To one who is pained like me:
My Life's grown a Load,
And my Faculties nod,
While I sigh for cold Jeanie in vain;
By Beauty and Scorn I'm slain:
The Wound it is mortal and deep,
My Pulses beat low in each Vein,
And threaten eternal Sleep.

196

COLIN.
Come here are the best Cures for thy Wounds,
O Boy, the cordial Bowl!
With soft harmonious Sounds,
Wounds, these can cure all Wounds,
With soft harmonious Sounds,
And pull off the cordial Bowl:
O Symon, sink thy Care, and tune up thy drooping Soul;
Above, the Gods bienly bouze,
When round they meet in a Ring;
They cast away Care, and carouse
Their Nectar, while they sing.
Then drink and chearfully sing,
These make the Blood circle fine;
Strike up the Musick,
The safest Physick,
Compounded with sparkling Wine.

197

ON The Great Eclipse OF THE SUN,

The 22d April, nine a Clock of the Morning, wrote a Month before it hapned, March 1715.

[_]

N.B. The Order of Time in placing some of my Manuscript Poems, with Regard to them formerly printed, is not observed in some few of the following, but their Dates shall be given.

Now do I press among the learned Throng,
To tell a great Eclipse in little Song.
At me nor Scheme, nor Demonstration ask,
That is our Gregory's , or fam'd Hally's Task:
'Tis they who are conversant with each Star,
Who knows how Planets Planets Rays debar.
This to pretend my Muse is not so bold,
She only echoes what she has been told.

Our rolling Globe will scarce have made the Sun
Seem half way up Olympus to have run,
When Night's pale Queen in her oft changed Way,
Will intercept in direct Line his Way,
And make black Night usurp the Throne of Day.
The curious will attend that Hour with Care,
And wish no Clouds may hover in the Air,

198

To dark the Medium, and obstruct from Sight
The gradual Motion and Decay of Light,
Whilst thoughtless Fools will view the Water Pale,
To see which of the Planets will prevail:
For then they think the Sun and Moon make War,
Thus Nurses Tales oftimes the Judgment mar.

When this strange Darkness overshades the Plains,
'Twill give an odd Surprise t'unwarned Swains,
Plain honest Hinds, who do not know the Cause,
Nor know of Orbs, their Motions or their Laws,
Will from the half plough'd Furrows homeward bend,
In dire Confusion, judging that the End
Of Time approacheth; thus possest with Fear,
They'll think the general Conflagration near.
The Traveler benighted on the Road
Will turn devout, and supplicate his God.
Cocks with their careful Mates and younger Fry,
As if't were Evening, to their Roosts will fly.
The horned Cattle will forget to feed,
And come home lowing from the grassie Mead.
Each Bird of Day will to his Nest repair,
And leave to Bats and Owls the dusky Air.
The Lark and little Robin's softer Lay
Will not be heard till the Return of Day.
Now this will be great Part of Europe's Case,
While Phebe's as a Mask on Phœbus' Face.
The unlearn'd Clowns, who don't our Æra know,
From this dark Friday will their Ages show;
As I have often heard old Country Men
Talk of dark Munday, and their Ages then.

Not long shall last this strange uncommon Gloom
When Light dispels the Ploughman's Fear of Doom;
With merry Heart he'll lift his ravish'd Sight
Up to the Heavens, and welcome back the Light.
How just's the Motions of these whirling Spheres!
Which ne'er can err while Time is met by Years.

199

How vast is little Man's capacious Soul!
That knows how Orbs throw Weilds of Æther roll.
How great's the Power of that Omnifick Hand!
Who gave them Motion by his wise Command,
That they should not while Time had Being stand.

Mr. Gregory Professor of Mathematicks in Edinburgh. Famed Hally Fellow of the Royal Society, London.

According to the Capernicon System.

The Gentleman's Qualifications, as debated by some of the Fellows of the Easy Club , April 1715.

From different Ways of Thinking comes debate,
This we despise, and That we over-rate,
Just as the Fancy takes, we love or hate.
Hence Whig and Tory live in endless Jarr,
And most of Families in Civil War:
Hence 'mongst the easiest Men beneath the Skies,
Even in their easy Dome, Debates arise:
As late they did with Strength of Judgment scan
These Qualities that form a Gentleman.
First Tippermaloch pled with Spanish Grace
That Gentry only sprung from antient Race,
Whose Names in old Records of Time were fix'd,
In whose rich Veins some royal Blood was mixt.

200

I being a Poet sprung from a Douglass' Loin,
In this proud Thought did with the Doctor join;
With this Addition, if they could speak Sense,
Ambitious I, ah! had no more Pretence.
Buchanan, with stiff Argument and bold,
Pled Gentry took its Birth from powerful Gold.
Him Hector Boece join'd, they argued strong,
Said they, to Wealth that Title must belong;
If Men are rich, they're gentle, and if not
You'll own their Birth and Sense are soon forgot.
Pray say, said they, How much respectful Grace
Demands an old red Coat and mangled Face?
Or one, if he could like an Angel preach,
If he to no rich Benefice can reach?
Ev'n Progeny of Dukes are at a Stand
How to make out bare Gentry without Land.
But still the Doctor would not quit the Field,
But that rich Upstarts should to Birth-right yeild;
He grew more stiff, nor would the Plea let go,
Said he was right, and swore it should be so.

But happy we, who have such wholsome Laws,
Which without Pleading can decide a Cause.
To this good Law Recourse we had at last,
That throws off Wrath, and makes our Friendship fast;
In which the Legislators laid the Plot,
To end all Controversy by a Vote.

Yet that we more good Humor might display,
We frankly turn'd the Vote another Way,
As in each Thing we common Topicks shun,
So great the Prize, nor Birth nor Riches won.
The Vote was carried thus, That easy he
Who should three Years a social Fellow be,
And to our Easy Club give no Offence,
After Triennial Tryal, should commence
A Gentleman, which gives as just a Claim
To that great Title, as the Blast of Fame

201

Can give to them who trade in humane Gore,
Or those who heap up Hoords of coined Ore;
Since in our social Friendship nought's design'd
But what may raise and brighten up the Mind;
We aiming closs to walk by Virtue's Rules,
To find true Honour's self, and leave her Shade to Fools.

A juvenile Society, of which I am a Fellow, from the general Antipathy we all seem'd to have at the ill Humor and Contradictions which arise from Trifles, especially those which constitute Whig and Tory, without having the grand Reason for it; this engaged us to take a Pleasure in the Sound of an Easy Club.

This Club, by one of our special Laws, must not exceed Twelve, and any Gentleman at his Admission was to take the Name of some Scots Author, or one eminent for something extraordinary, for obscuring his real Name in the Register of our Lucubrations, such as are nam'd in this Debate, Tippermaloch, Buchanan, Hector Boece, &c.

On WIT.

My easy Friends, since ye think fit
This Night to lucubrate on Wit;
And since ye judge that I compose
My Thoughts in Rhime better than Prose,
I'll give my Judgment in a Sang,
And here it comes be't right or wrang.
But first of a' I'll tell a Tale
That with my Case runs paralel.

There was a manting Lad in Fife,
Wha cou'd na for his very Life
Speak without stammering very lang,
Yet never manted when he sang.
His Father's Kiln he anes saw burning,
Which gart the Lad run Breathless mourning;
Hameward with cliver Strides he lap,
To tell his Dady his Mishap.
At Distance e'er he reach'd the Door,
He stood and rais'd a hideous Roar.

202

His Father when he heard his Voice,
Stept out and said, Why a' this Noise?
The Calland gap'd and glowr'd about,
But no ae Word could he lug out:
His Dad cry'd, kening his Defect,
Sing, sing, or I shall break your Neck.
Then soon he gratifi'd his Sire,
And sang aloud, Your Kiln's a Fire.

Now ye'll allow there's Wit in that,
To tell a Tale sae very pat.
Bright Wit appears in mony a Shape,
Which some invent and others ape.
Some shaw their Wit in wearing Claiths,
And some in coining of new Aiths;
There's crambo Wit in making Rhime,
And dancing Wit in beating Time:
There's metl'd Wit in Story-telling,
In writing Grammar, and right spelling:
Wit shines in Knowledge of Politicks,
And wow! what Wit's amang the Criticks.

So far my Mates excuse me while I play
In Strains ironick with that heavenly Ray,
Rays which the humane Intelects refine,
And makes the Man with brill[i]ant Lustre shine,
Marking him sprung from Origine divine.
Yet may a well rig'd Ship be full of Flaws,
So may loose Wits regard no sacred Laws:
That Ship the Waves will soon to Pieces shake,
So 'midst his Vices sinks the witty Rake.
But when on First-rate-virtues Wit attends,
It both itself and Virtue recommends,
And challenges Respect where e'er its Blaze extends.

Being but an indifferent Sort of an Orator, my Friends would merrily alledge that I was not so happy in Prose as Rhime; it was carried in a Vote, against which there is no Opposition, and the Night appointed for some Lessons on Wit, I was ordered to give my Thoughts in Verse.

203

ON FRIENDSHIP.

The Earth-born Clod who hugs his Idol Pelf,
His only Friends are Mammon and himself:
The drunken Sots, who want the Art to think,
Still cease from Friendship when they cease from Drink.
The empty Fop, who scarce for Man will pass,
Ne'er sees a Friend but when he views his Glass.

Friendship first springs from Sympathy of Mind,
Which to complete the Virtues all combine,
And only found 'mongst Men who can espy,
The Merits of his Friend without Envy.
Thus all pretending Friendship's but a Dream,
Whose Base is not reciprocal Esteem.

204

KEITHA:

A PASTORAL, Lamenting the Death of the Right Honourable MARY Countess of Wigtoun.

RINGAN.
O'er ilka Thing a gen'ral Sadness hings!
The Burds wi' Melancholy droop their Wings;
My Sheep and Kye neglect to moup their Food,
And seem to think as in a dumpish Mood.
Hark how the Winds souch mournfu' throu' the Broom,
The very Lift puts on a heavy Gloom:
My Neibour Colin too, he bears a Part,
His Face speaks out the Sairness of his Heart;
Tell, tell me Colin, for my bodding Thought,
A Bang of Fears into my Breast has brought,

COLIN.
Where hast thou been thou Simpleton, wha speers
The Cause of a' our Sorrow and ours Tears?
Wha unconcern'd can hear the common Skaith
The Warld receives by lovely Keitha's Death?
The bonniest Sample of what's good and kind;
Fair was her Make, and heav'nly was her Mind.

205

But now this sweetest Flower of a' our Plain,
Leaves us to sigh, tho a' our Sighs are vain;
For never mair she'll grace the heartsome Green,
Ay heartsome when she deign'd there to be seen.
Speak Flowry Meadows where she us'd to wauk,
Speak Flocks and Burds wha've heard her sing or tauk.
Did ever you sae meikle Beauty bear,
Or ye sae mony heav'nly Accents hear:
Ye painted Haughs, ye Minstrels of the Air
Lament, for lovely Keitha is nae mair.

RINGAN.
Ye westlin Winds that gently us'd to play
On her white Breast, and steal some Sweets away,
Whilst her delicious Breath perfum'd your Breeze,
Which gratefu' Flora took to feed her Bees.
Bear on your Wings, round Earth, her Spoteless Fame,
Worthy that noble Race from whence she came;
Resounding Braes where e'er she us'd to lean,
And view the Crystal Burn glide o'er the Green,
Return your Echoe's to our mournfu' Sang,
And let the Streams in Murmures bear't alang.
Ye unkend Powers, wha Water haunt or Air,
Lament, for lovely Keitha is nae mair.

COLIN.
Ah! wha cou'd tell the Beauties of her Face,
Her Mouth that never op'd but wi' a Grace;
Her Een which did with heav'nly Sparkles low,
Her modest Cheek flush'd with a rosie Glow,
Her fair brent Brow, smooth as the unrunkled Deep,
When a' the Winds are in their Caves asleep:

206

Her Presence like a Simmer's Morning Ray,
Lighten'd our Hearts, and gart ilk Place look gay.
Now twin'd of Life, these Charms look cauld and blae,
And what before gave Joy, now makes us wae.
Her Goodness shin'd in ilka pious Deed,—
A Subject, Ringan, for a lofty Reed!
A Shepherd's Sang maun sic high Thoughts decline,
Lest rustick Notes should darken what's divine.
Youth, Beauty, Graces, a' that's good and fair
Lament, for lovely Keitha is nae mair.

RINGAN.
How tenderly she smooth'd our Master's Mind,
When round his manly Waist her Arms she twin'd,
And look'd a Thousand saft Things to his Heart,
While native Sweetness sought nae Help frae Art.
To him her Merit still appear'd mair bright,
As yielding she own'd his superior Right.
Baith saft and sound he slept within her Arms,
Gay were his Dreams, the Influence of her Charms.
Soon as the Morning dawn'd he'd draw the Screen,
And watch the op'ning of her fairer Een;
Whence sweetest Rays gusht out in sic a Thrang,
Beyond Expression in my rural Sang.

COLIN.
O Clementina! sprouting fair Remains
Of her, wha was the Glory of our Plains.
Dear Innocence with Infant Darkness blest,
Which hides the Happiness that thou hast mist.
May a' thy Mither's Sweets thy Portion be,
And a' thy Mither's Graces shine in thee.

207

RINGAN.
She loot us ne'er gae hungry to the Hill,
And a' she gae, she geed it wi' good Will;
Fow mony, mony a ane will mind that Day
On which frae us she's tane sae soon away,
Baith Hynds and Herds, wha's Cheeks bespake nae Scant,
And throu' the Howms could whistle, sing and rant,
Will miss her sair, till happily they find
Anither in her Place sae good and kind.
The Lasses wha did at her Graces mint,
Ha'e by her Death their bonniest Pattern tint.
O ilka ane who did her Bounty skair,
Lament, for gen'rous Keitha is nae mair.

COLIN.
O Ringan, Ringan! Things gang sae uneven,
I canna well take up the Will of Heav'n.
Our Crosses teughly last us mony a Year,
But unco soon our Blessings disappear.

RINGAN.
I'll tell thee Colin my last Sunday's Note,
I tented well Mess Thamas ilka Jot.
The Powers aboon are cautious as they're just,
And dinna like to gi'e o'er meikle Trust
To this unconstant Earth, with what's divine,
Lest in laigh Damps they should their Lustre tine.
Sae let's leave aff our Murmuring and Tears,
And never value Life by Length of Years.
But as we can in Goodness it employ,
Syne wha dies first, first gains eternal Joy.
Come, Colin, dight your Cheeks and banish Care,
Our Lady's happy, tho with us nae mair.

She was Daughter to the late Earl Marishal, the third of that honourable Rank of Nobility.

208

To the Right Honourable, The Town-Council of EDINBURGH , THE ADDRESS of Allan Ramsay .

Your Poet humbly means and shaws,
That contrair to just Rights and Laws
I've suffer'd muckle Wrang
By Lucky Reid , and Ballad Singers,
Wha thum'd with their coarse dirty Fingers
Sweet Edie's Funeral-Sang.
They spoil'd my Sense and staw my Cash,
My Muses Pride murgully'd,
And printing it like their vile Trash,
The honest Lieges whilly'd.
Thus undone, to London
It gade to my Disgrace,
Sae pimpin and limpin
In Rags wi' bluther'd Face.

Yet Gleg-eyed Friends throw the Disguise
Receiv'd it as a dainty Prize
For a' it was sae hav'ren,
Gart Lintot take it to his Press,
And clead it in a braw new Dress,
Syne took it to the Tavern.

209

But tho it was made clean and braw,
Sae sair it had been knoited,
It blather'd Buff before them a',
And aftentimes turn'd doited.
It griev'd me and reav'd me
Of kindly Sleep and Rest,
By Carlings and Gorlings
To be sae sair opprest.

Wherefore to You ne'er kend to guide ill,
But wisely had the good Town's Bridle,
My Case I plainly tell,
And, as your ain , plead I may have
Your Word of Weight , when now I crave
To guide my Gear my sell.
Then clean and fair the Type shall be,
The Paper like the Snaw,
Nor shall our Town think Shame wi' me,
When we gang far awa.
What's wanted if granted
Beneath your honour'd Wing,
Baith hantily and cantily
Your Supplicant shall sing.

A Printers Relict, who with the Hawkers Reprinted my Pastoral on Mr. Addison, without my Knowledge on ugly Paper, full of Errors.

One of their uncorrect Copies was re-printed at London by Bernard Lintot in Folio first, before he printed it a second Time from a correct Copy of my own, with the honourable Mr. Burchet's English Version of it.

Spoke Nonsense, from Words being wanting, and many wrong spell'd and changed, such as, gras for gars, Praise for Phrase, &c.

A free Citizen.

To interpose their just Authority in my Favour, and grant me an Act to ward off these little Pirates, which I gratefully acknowledge the Receipt of.

There being Abundance of their Petitioners who daily oblige themselves to pray.

210

Inscription on the Gold Tea-pot, gain'd by Sir James Cunningham of Milncraig, Bart.

After the gaining Edinburgh's Prize
The Day before with running thrice,
Me Milncraig's Rock most fairly won,
When thrice again the Course he run:
Now for Diversion 'tis my Share
To run three Heats, and please the Fair.

Inscription engraven on the Piece of Plate, which was a Punch-Bowl and Ladle, given by the Captains of the Train'd-Bands of Edinburgh, and gain'd by Captain Ch. Crockat's Swallow.

Charge me with Nants and limpid Spring,
Let sowr and sweet be mixt,
Bend round a Health syne to the King,
To Edinburgh's Captains next,
Wha form'd me in sae blyth a Shape,
And gave me lasting Honours,
Take up my Ladle fill and lape,
And say, Fairfa' the Donors.

211

TO THE Whin-Bush Club , THE BILL Of ALLAN RAMSAY.

Of Crawfurd-Moor, born in Leadhill,
Where Min'ral Springs Glengoner fill,
Which joins sweet flowing Clyde,
Between auld Crawfurd-Lindsay's Towers,
And where Deneetne rapid pours
His Stream thro' Glotta's Tide;
Native of Clydsdale's upper Ward,
Bred Fifteen Summers there,
Tho, to my Loss I'm no a Laird
By Birth, my Title's fair
To bend wi' ye and spend wi' ye
An Evening, and gaffaw,
If Merit and Spirit
Be found without a Flaw.

212

Since dously ye do nought at Random,
Then take my Bill to Avisandum;
And if there's nae Objection,
I'll deem't my Honour and be glad
To come beneath your Whin-Bush Shade,
And claim to its Protection.
If frae the Caverns of a Head
That's boss, a Storm should blaw,
Etling wi' Spite to rive my Reed,
And give my Muse a Fa',
When poring and soaring
O'er Heleconian Heights,
She traces these Places
Where Cynthius delights.

This Club consists of Clydsdale-Shire Gentlemen, who frequently meet at a diverting Hour, and keep up a good Understanding amongst themselves over a friendly Botle. And from a charitable Principle, easily collect into their Treasurer's Box a small Fond [sic], which has many a Time relieved the Distresses of indigent Persons of that Shire.

In the Parish of Crawfurd-Moor, famous for the Lead and Gold Mines belonging to the Earl of Hoptoun.

The Name of a small River, which takes its Rise from the Lead-hills, and enters Clyde between the Castle of Crawfurd and the Mouth of Deneetne, another of the Branches of Clyde.

AN EPISTLE TO Mr. JAMES ARBUCKLE of Belfast , A. M.

Edinburgh, January 1719.

As Errant Knight with Sword and Pistol,
Bestrides his Steed with mighty Fistle;
Then stands some Time in jumbled Swither
To ride in this Road or that ither;
At last spurs on, and disna care for
A how, a what Way, or a wherefore.

213

Or like extemporary Quaker,
Wafting his Lungs, t'enlighten weaker
Lanthorns of Clay, where Light is wanting,
With formless Phrase, and formal Canting;
While Jacob Behmen's Salt does season,
And saves his Thought frae corrupt Reason,
Gowling aloud with Motions queerest,
Yerking these Words out which ly nearest.

Thus I (no longer to illustrate
With Similies, lest I should frustrate
Design Laconick of a Letter,
With Heap of Language and no Matter,)
Bang'd up my blyth auld-fashion'd Whistle,
To sowf ye o'er a short Epistle,
Without Rule, Compasses, or Charcoal,
Or serious Study in a dark Hole.
Three Times I ga'e the Muse a Rug,
Then bate my Nails and claw'd my Lug;
Still heavy, at the last my Nose
I prim'd with an inspiring Dose,
Then did the Ideas dance, (dear safe us!)
As they'd been daft.—Here ends the Preface.

Good Mr. James Arbuckle, Sir,
(That's Merchant's Stile, as clean as Fir)
Ye're welcome back to Caledonie,
Lang Life and thriving light upon ye,
Harvest, Winter, Spring and Summer,
And ay keep up your heartsome Humor,
That ye may thro' your lucky Task go,
Of brushing up our Sister Glasgow;

214

Where Lads are dextrous at improving,
And docile Lasses fair and loving:
But never tent these Fellows Girning,
Wha wear their Faces ay in Mourning,
And frae pure Dullness are malicious,
Terming ilk Turn that's witty, vicious.

Now, Jamie, in neist Place, Secundo,
To give you what's your Due in mundo;
That is to say in hame o'er Phrases,
To tell ye, Men of Mettle praises
Ilk Verse of yours when they can light on't,
And trouth I think they're in the right on't;
For there's ay something sae auldfarran,
Sae slid, sae unconstrain'd and darrin,
In ilka Sample we have seen yet,
That little better e'er has been yet.
Sae much for that.—My Friend Arbuckle,
I ne'er afore roos'd ane sae muckle.
Fause Flat'ry nane but Fools will tickle,
That gars me hate it like auld Nicol:
But when ane's of his Merit conscious,
He's in the wrang, when prais'd, that glunshes.

Thirdly, Not tether'd to Connection,
But rattling by inspir'd Direction,
When ever Fame, with Voice like Thunder,
Sets up a Chield a Warld's Wonder,
Either for slashing Fowk to dead,
Or having Wind-mills in his Head,
Or Poet, or an airy Beau,
Or ony twa Leg'd Rary-show,
They wha have never seen't are bissy
To speer what like a Carlie is he.

Imprimis then, for Tallness I
Am five Foot and four Inches high:

215

A Black-a-vic'd snod dapper Fallow,
Nor lean, nor overlaid wi' Tallow.
With Phiz of a Morocco Cut,
Resembling a late Man of Wit,
Auld-gabbet Spec , wha was sae Cunning
To be a Dummie ten Years running.

Then for the Fabrick of my Mind,
'Tis mair to Mirth than Grief inclin'd.
I rather choose to laugh at Folly,
Than show Dislike by Melancholy;
Well judging a sowr heavy Face
Is not the truest Mark of Grace.

I hate a Drunkard or a Glutton,
Yet am nae Fae to Wine and Mutton.
Great Tables ne'er engag'd my Wishes,
When crowded with o'er mony Dishes,
A healthfu' Stomach sharply set
Prefers a Back-sey pipin het.

I never cou'd imagin't vicious
Of a fair Fame to be ambitious:
Proud to be thought a comick Poet,
And let a Judge of Numbers know it,
I court Occasion thus to show it.

Second of thirdly,—pray take heed,
Ye's get a short Swatch of my Creed.
To follow Method negatively
Ye ken takes Place of positively.
Well then, I'm nowther Whig nor Tory,
Nor Credit give to Purgatory.
Transub, Loretta-house, and mae Tricks,
As Prayers to Saints, Katties, and Patricks;

216

Nor Asgilite , nor Bess Clarksonian,
Nor Mountaineer nor Mugletonian;
Nor can believe, ant's nae great Ferly,
In Cotmoor Fowk , and Andrew Harley.

Neist Anti-Tolland, Blunt and Wh---,
Know positively I'm a Christian,
Believing Truths and thinking free,
Wishing thrawn Parties wad agree.

Say, wad ye ken my gate of Fending,
My Income, Management, and Spending?
Born to nae Lairdship, mair's the Pity!
Yet Denison of this fair City.
I make what honest Shift I can,
And in my ain House am Good-man,
Which stands on Edinburgh's Street the Sun-side,
I theek the out, and line the Inside
Of mony a douse and witty Pash,
And baith Ways gather in the Cash;
Thus heartily I graze and beau it,
And keep a Wife ay great wi' Poet.
Contented I have sic a Skair,
As does my Business to a Hair,
And fain wa'd prove to ilka Scot
That Poortith's no the Poet's Lot.

217

Fourthly and lastly baith togither,
Pray let us ken when ye come hither;
There's mony a canty Carle and me
Wa'd be much comforted to see ye.
But if your outward be Refractory,
Send us your inward Manufactory.
That when we're kedgy o'er our Claret,
We correspond may with your Spirit.

Accept of my kind Wishes, with
The same to Dons Buttler and Smith;
Health Wit and Joy, Sauls large and free,
Be a' your Fates,—sae God be wi' ye.

A Quaker, who wrote Volumes of unintelligible enthusiastick Bombast.

Vide Mr. Arbuckle's Poem on Snuff.

Having been in his Native Ireland visiting his Friends.

The Spectator, who gives us a fictitious Description of his short Face and Taciturnity, that he had been esteem'd a dumb Man for ten Years.

Mr. Asgil a late Member of Parliament advanced (whether in Jest or Earnest I know not) some very whimsical Opinions, particularly, That People need not die if they pleas'd, but be translated alive to Heaven like Enoch and Elijah. Clerksonian [sic], Bessy Clarkson a Lanerk-Shire Woman. Vide the History of her Life and Principles.

Our wild Folks, who always prefer a Hill-side to a Church under any civil Authority. Mugletonian, A kind of Quakers, so called from one Mugleton. See Leslie's Snake in the Grass.

A Family or two who had a particular Religion of their own, valued themselves on using vain Repetitions in Prayers of 6 or 7 Hours long; were pleased with Ministers of no kind. Andrew Harlaw [sic] a dull Fellow of no Education was Head of the Party.

To the Right Honourable, WILLIAM Earl of Dalhousie .

Mæcenas atavis edite Regibus, Horace.

Dalhousie of an auld Descent,
My Chief, my Stoup and Ornament,
For Entertainment a wee while,
Accept this Sonnet with a Smile;
Setting great Horace in my View,
He to Mecenas, I to you:
But that my Muse may sing with Ease,
I'll keep or drap him as I please.

218

How differently are Fowk inclin'd,
There's hardly twa of the same Mind:
Some like to study, some to play,
Some on the Links to win the Day,
And gar the Courser rin like wood,
A' drapin down with Sweat and Blood:
The Winner syne assumes a Look
Might gain a Monarch or a Duke.
Neist view the Man with pauky Face
Has mounted to a fashous Place,
Inclin'd by an o'er-ruling Fate,
He's pleas'd with his uneasy State:
Glowr'd at a while, he gangs fou braw,
Till frae his kittle Post he fa'.

The Lothian Farmer he likes best
To be of good faugh Riggs possest,
And fen upon a frugal Stock,
Where his Forbeers had us'd the Yoke:
Nor is he fond to leave his Wark,
And venture in a rotten Bark,
Syne unto far aff Countries steer
On tumbling Waves to gather Gear.

The Merchant wreck'd upon the Main
Swears he'll never venture on't again;
That he had rather live on Cakes,
And shyrest Swats, with Landart Maiks,
As rin the Risk by Storms to have,
When he is dead, a living Grave.
But Seas turn smooth, and he grows fain,
And fairly takes his Word again:
Tho he shou'd to the Bottom sink,
Of Poverty he downa think.

219

Some like to laugh their Time away,
To dance while Pipes or Fidles play,
And have nae Sense of ony Want
As lang as they can drink and rant.

The rat'ling Drum and Trumpet's Tout
Delight young Swankies that are stout:
What his kind frighted Mother ugs,
Is Musick to the Soger's Lugs.

The Hunter with his Hounds and Hawks
Bangs up afore his Wife awakes;
Nor speers gin she has ought to say,
But scowrs o'er Highs and Hows a' Day,
Throw Moss and Moor, nor does he care
Whither the Day be foul or fair,
If he his trusty Hounds can chear
To hunt the Tod or drive the Deer.

May I be happy in my Lays,
And won a lasting Wreath of Bays,
Is a' my Wish; well pleas'd to sing
Beneath a Tree, or by a Spring,
While Lads and Lasses on the Mead
Attend my Caledonian Reed,
And with the sweetest Notes rehearse
My Thoughts, and roose me for my Verse.

If you, my Lord, class me amang
Those who have sung baith saft and strang,
Of smiling Love or doughty Deed,
To Starns sublime I'll lift my Head.

220

Horace to Virgil, on his taking a Voyage to Athens.

Sic te diva potens Cypri, ------

O Cyprian Goddess twinkle clear,
And Helens' Brithers ay appear;
Ye Stars wha shed a lucky Light,
Auspicious ay keep in a Sight;
King Eol grant a tydie Tirl,
But boast the Blast that rudely whirl;
Dear Ship be canny with your Care,
At Athens land my Virgil fair,
Syne soon and safe, baith Lith and Spaul,
Bring hame the tae haff o' my Saul.

Daring and unco stout he was,
With Heart hool'd in three Sloughs of Brass,
Wha ventur'd first on the rough Sea,
With hempen Branks and Horse of Tree:
Wha on the weak Machine durst ride
Throu' Tempests, and a rairing Tide;
Nor clinty Craigs, nor Hurrycane,
That drives the Adriatick Main,
And gars the Ocean gowl and quake,
Cou'd e'er a Soul sae sturdy shake.
The Man wha cou'd sic Rubs win o'er,
Without a Wink at Death might glowr,
Wha unconcern'd can take his Sleep
Amang the Monsters of the Deep.

Jove vainly twin'd the Sea and Eard,
Since Mariners are not afraid.
With Laws of Nature to dispence,
And impiously treat Providence.

221

Audacious Men at nought will stand
When vicious Passions have command.
Prometheus ventur'd up and staw
A lowan Coal frae Heav'ns high Ha';
Unsonsy Thift, which Feavers brought
In Bikes, which Fowk like Sybous hought:
Then Death erst slaw began to ling,
And fast as Haps to dart his Sting.
Neist Dedalus must contradict
Nature forsooth, and Feathers stick
Upon his Back, syne upward streek,
And in at Jove's high Winnocks keek,
While Hercules, wi's Timber Mell,
Plays rap upo' the Yates of Hell.

What is't Man winna ettle at?
E'en wi' the Gods he'll bell the Cat:
Tho Jove be very Laith to kill,
They winna let his Bowt ly still.

An ODE to Mr. F---.

Solvitur acris hiems ------
Horace

Now Gowans sprout and Lavrocks sing,
And welcome West Winds warm the Spring,
O'er Hill and Dale they saftly blaw,
And drive the Winter's Cauld awa.
The Ships lang gyzen'd at the Peer
Now spread their Sails and smoothly steer,

222

The Nags and Nowt hate wissen'd Strae,
And frisking to the Fields they gae,
Nor Hynds wi' Elson and hemp Lingle,
Sit solling Shoon out o'er the Ingle.
Now bonny Haughs their Verdure boast,
That late were clade wi' Snaw and Frost,
With her gay Train the Paphian Queen
By Moon-light dances on the Green,
She leads while Nymphs and Graces sing,
And trip around the Fairy Ring.
Mean Time poor Vulcan hard at Thrift,
Gets mony a sair and heavy Lift,
Whilst rinnen down, his haff-blind Lads
Blaw up the Fire, and thump the Gads.

Now leave your Fitsted on the Dew,
And busk ye'r sell in Habit new.
Be gratefu' to the guiding Powers,
And blythly spend your easy Hours.
O kanny F---! tutor Time,
And live as lang's ye'r in your Prime;
That ill bred Death has nae Regard
To King or Cottar, or a Laird,
As soon a Castle he'll attack,
As Waus of Divots roof'd wi' Thack.
Immediately we'll a' take Flight
Unto the mirk Realms of Night,
As Stories gang, with Gaists to roam,
In gloumie Pluto's gousty Dome;
Bid fair Good-day to Pleasure syne
Of bonny Lasses and red Wine.

Then deem ilk little Care a Crime,
Dares waste an Hour of precious Time;
And since our Life's sae unko short,
Enjoy it a', ye've nae mair for't.

223

To the Ph--- an ODE.

Vides ut alta stet nive candidum
Soracte ------
Horace.

Look up to Pentland's towring Taps,
Buried beneath great Wreaths of Snaw,
O'er ilka Cleugh, ilk Scar and Slap,
As high as ony Roman Wa'.

Driving their Baws frae Whins or Tee,
There's no ae Gowfer to be seen,
Nor dousser Fowk wysing a Jee
The Byas Bouls on Tamson's Green.

Then fling on Coals, and ripe the Ribs,
And beek the House baith Butt and Ben,
That Mutchken Stoup it hads but Dribs,
Then let's get in the tappit Hen.

Good Claret best keeps out the Cauld,
And drives away the Winter soon,
It makes a Man baith gash and bauld,
And heaves his Saul beyond the Moon.

Leave to the Gods your ilka Care,
If that they think us worth their While,
They can a Rowth of Blessings spare,
Which will our fashious Fears beguile.

224

For what they have a Mind to do,
That will they do, should we gang wood,
If they command the Storms to blaw,
Then upo' sight the Hailstains thud.

But soon as e'er they cry, Bequiet,
The blatt'ring Winds dare nae mair move,
But cour into their Caves, and wait
The high Command of supreme Jove.

Let neist Day come as it thinks fit,
The present Minute's only ours,
On Pleasure let's imploy our Wit,
And laugh at Fortune's feckless Power.

Be sure ye dinna quat the Grip
Of ilka Joy when ye are young,
Before auld Age your Vitals nip,
And lay ye twafald o'er a Rung.

Sweet Youth's a blyth and heartsome Time,
Then Lads and Lasses while it's May,
Gae pou the Gowan in its Prime,
Before it wither and decay.

Watch the saft Minutes of Delyte,
When Jenny speaks beneath her Breath,
And kisses, laying a the wyte
On you if she kepp ony Skaith.

Haith ye're ill bred, she'll smiling say,
Ye'll worry me ye greedy Rook;
Syne frae your Arms she'll rin away,
And hide her sell in some dark Nook:

Her Laugh will lead you to the Place
Where lies the Happiness ye want,
And plainly tells you to your Face,
Nineteen Nay-says are haff a Grant.

225

Now to her heaving Bosom cling,
And sweetly toolie for a Kiss,
Frae her fair Finger whop a Ring,
As Taiken of a future Bliss.

These Bennisons, I'm very sure,
Are of the Gods indulgent Grant;
Then surly Carles, whisht, forbear
To plague us with your whining Cant.

To Mr. William Aikman.

'Tis granted, Sir, Pains may be spar'd
Your Merit to set forth,
When there's sae few wha claim Regard,
That disna ken your Worth.

Yet Poets give immortal Fame
To Mortals that excel,
Which if neglected they're to blame;
But you've done that your sell.

While frae Originals of yours
Fair Copies shall be tane,
And fix'd on Brass to busk our Bow'rs,
Your Mem'ry shall remain.

To your ain Deeds the maist deny'd,
Or of a Taste o'er fine,
Maybe ye're, but o'er right, afraid
To sink in Verse like mine.

226

The last can ne'er the Reason prove,
Else wherefore with good Will
Do ye my nat'ral Lays approve,
And help me up the Hill?

By your Assistance unconstrain'd
To Courts I can repair,
And by your Art my Way I've gain'd
To Closets of the Fair.

Had I a Muse like lofty Pope,
For touring Numbers fit,
Then I the ingenious Mind might hope
In truest Light to hit.

But comick Tale and Sonnet slee
Are coosten for my Share,
And if in these I bear the Gree,
I'll think it very fair.

Spoken to three young Ladies, who would have me to determine which of them was the bonniest.

Me anes three Beauties did surround,
And ilka Beauty gave a Wound,
Whilst they with smiling Eye,
Said, Allan, which think ye maist fair?
Gi'e Judgment frankly, never spare.
Hard is the Task said I:
But added, seeing them sae free,
Ladies ye maun say mair to me,
And my Demand right fair is;
First, like the gay Celestial Three,
Shaw a' your Charms, and then ha'e wi' ye,
Faith I shall be your Paris.

227

TO Sir William Bennet Of Grubbet, Bart.

While now in Discord giddy Changes reel,
And some are rack'd about on Fortunes Wheel,
You with undaunted Stalk, and Brow serene,
May trace your Groves, and press the dewy Green;
No guilty Twangs your manly Joys to wound,
Or horrid Dreams to make your Sleep unsound.

To such as you, who can mean Care despise,
Nature's all beautiful 'twixt Earth and Skies.
Not hurried with the Thirst of unjust Gain,
You can delight your self on Hill or Plain,
Observing when those tender Sprouts appear,
Which crowd with fragrant Sweets the youthful Year.
Your lovely Scenes of Marlefield abound
With as much Choise as is in Britain found:
Here fairest Plants from Nature's Bosom start
From Soil prolifick, serv'd with curious Art:
Here oft the heedful Gazer is beguil'd,
And wanders through an artificial Wild,
While native flowry Green, and christal Strands,
Appear the Labours of ingenious Hands.

Most happy he who can those Sweets enjoy
With Taste refin'd, which does not easy cloy.
Not so Plebeian Souls, whom sporting Fate
Thrusts into Life upon a large Estate,
While Spleen their weak Imagination sowrs,
They're at a Loss how to imploy their Hours:
The sweetest Plants which fairest Gardens show,
Are lost to them, for them unheeded grow.

228

Such purblind Eyes ne'er view the son'rous Page,
Where shines the Raptures of poetick Rage,
Nor through the Microscope can take Delight,
T'observe the Tusks and Bristles of a Mite;
Nor by the lengthen'd Tub[e] learn to descry
These shining Worlds which roll around the Sky.
Bid such read Hist'ry to improve their Skill,
Polite Excuse! Their Memories are ill.
Moll's Maps may in their Dining-rooms make show,
But their Contents they're not oblig'd to know;
And gen'rous Friendship's out of Sight too fine,
They think it only means a Glass of Wine.

But he whose chearful Mind hath higher Flown,
And adds learn'd Thoughts of others to his own,
Has seen the World, and read the Volume Man,
And can the Springs and Ends of Actions scan,
Has fronted Deaths in Service of his King,
And drunken deep of the Castalian Spring;
This Man can live,—and happiest Life's his due,
Can be a Friend,—a Virtue known to few;
Yet all such Virtues strongly shine in You.

An EPISTLE to a Friend at Florence, in his Way to Rome.

Your steady Impulse foreign Climes to view,
To study Nature, and what Art can shew,
I now approve, while my warm Fancy walks
O'er Italy, and with your Genius talks,
We trace with glowing Breast and peiercing Look
The curious Galery of th'illustrious Duke,

229

Where all those Masters of the Arts divine,
With Pencils, Pens, and Chizels greatly Shine,
Immortalizing the Augustan Age,
On Medals, Canvas, Stone, or writen Page.
Profiles and Busts Originals express,
And antique Scrols, old e'er we knew the Press.
For's Love to Science, and each virtuous Scot,
May Days unnumber'd be great Cosmus' Lot.

The sweet Hesperian Fields you'll next explore,
'Twixt Arnus' Banks and Tiber's fertile Shore.
Now, now I wish my Organs could keep Pace,
With my fond Muse and you these Plains to trace,
We'd enter Rome with an uncommon Taste,
And feed our Minds on every famous Waste;
Amphitheaters, Columns, Royal Tombs,
Triumphal Arches, Ruines of vast Domes,
Old aerial Aqueducts, and strong pav'd Roads,
Which seem to've been not wrought by Men but Gods.

These view'd, we'd then survey with outmost Care
What modern Rome produces fine or rare,
Where Buildings rise with all the Strength of Art,
Proclaiming their great Architect's Desert,
Which Citron Shades surround and Jessamin,
And all the Soul of Raphael shines within:
Then we'd regale our Ears with sounding Notes,
Which warble tuneful thro' the beardless Throats,
Join'd with the vib'rating harmonious Strings,
And breathing Tubes, while the soft Eunoch sings.

Of all those Dainties take a hearty Meal;
But let your Resolution still prevail,
Return before your Pleasure grow a Toil,
To longing Friends, and your own native Soil:
Preserve your Health, your Virtue still improve,
Hence you'll invite Protection from above.

230

The beautiful Rose Tree enclosed.

With Awe and Pleasure we behold thy Sweets,
Thy lovely Roses have their pointed Guards,
Yet tho the Gath'rer Opposition meets,
The fragrant Purchase all his Pain rewards.

But hedg'd about and watch'd with warry Eyes,
O Plant superior, beautiful and fair,
We view thee like yon Stars which gem the Skies,
But equally to gain we must despair.

Ah! wert thou growing on some secret Plain,
And found by me, how ravisht would I meet
All thy transporting Charms to ease my Pain,
And feast my raptur'd Soul on all that's sweet.

Thus sung poor Symon: Symon was in love,
His too aspiring Passion made him smart;
The Rose Tree was a Mistress far above
The Shepherd's Hope, which broke his tender Heart.

231

To R--- H--- B---, an ODE.

Nullam Vare sacra vite prius severis arborem,
Circa mite solum Tiburis & mænia Catili.
Hor.

O B---, cou'd these Fields of thine
Bear as in Gaul the juicy Vine,
How sweet the bonny Grape wou'd shine
On Wau's where now,
Your Apricocks and Peaches fine
Their Branches bow.

Since humane Life is but a Blink,
Why should we its short Joys sink;
He disna live that canna link
The Glass about,
When warm'd with Wine, like Men we think,
And grow mair stout.

The cauldrife Carlies clog'd wi' Care,
Wha gathering Gear gang hyt and gare,
If ramn'd we red, they rant and rair
Like mirthfu' Men,
It soothly shaws them they can spare,
A rowth to spend.

What Soger when with Wine he's bung
Did e'er complain he had been dung,
Or of his Toil, or empty Spung,
Na, o'er his Glass,
Nought but braw Deeds imploy his Tongue,
Or some sweet Lass.

232

Yet Trouth, 'tis proper we should stint
Our sells to a fresh mod'rate Pint,
Why should we (the blyth Blessing) mint
To waist or spill,
Since, aften, when our Reason's tint
We may do ill.

Let's set these Hair-brain'd Fowk in View,
That when they're stupid, mad and fow
Do brutal Deeds, which aft they rue
For a' their Days,
Which frequently prove very few
To such as these.

Then let us grip our Bliss mair sicker,
And tape our Heal, and sprightly Liquor,
Which sober tane makes Wit the quicker,
And Sense mair keen,
While graver Heads that's muckle thicker
Grane wi' the Spleen.

May ne'er sic wicked Fumes arise
In me shall break a' sacred Ties,
And gar me like a Fool despise
With Stifness rude,
What ever my best Friends advise
Tho ne'er so good.

'Tis best then to evite the Sin
Of bending till our Sauls gae blin,
Lest like our Glass our Breasts grow thin,
And let Fowk peep,
At ilka secret hid within
That we should keep.

233

Clyde's Welcome TO HIS PRINCE.

What chearful Sounds from ev'ry Side I hear,
How beauteous on their Banks my Nymphs appear,
Got throw these massy Mountains at my Source,
O'er Rocks stupendous of my upper Course.
To these fair Plains where I more smoothly move,
Throw verdant Vales to meet Evana's Love.
Yonder she comes beneath Dodona's Shade,
How blyth she looks! how sweet and gaylie clade;
Her flowry Bounds bears all the Pride of May,
While round her soft Meanders Shepherd's play.
Hail lovely Naid to my Bosom large,
Amidst my Stores commit thy chrystal Charge,
And speak these Joys all thy Deportment shews,
That to old Ocean I may have good News.
With solemn Voice, thus spoke Majestick Clyde,
In softer Notes lov'd Evan thus reply'd.

Great Glotta, long have I had Cause to mourn,
While my forsaken Stream gusht from my Urn.
Since my late Lord his Nation's just Delight,
Greatly lamented sunk in endless Night.

234

His hopeful Stem our chief Desire and Boast,
Expos'd to Danger on some foreign Coast,
Lonely for Years, I've murmur'd on my Way,
When dark I wept, and sight in shining Day.

The Sire return'd, just Reasons for thy Pains,
So long to wind through solitary Plains:
Thy Loss was mine, I sympathiz'd with thee,
Since one our Griefs, then share thy Joys with me.

Then hear me, liquid Chiftain of the Dale,
Hush all your Cat'racts, till I tell my Tale,
Then rise and rore, and kiss your bord'ring Flowers,
And sound our Joys around yon lordly Towers;
Yon lordly Towers, which happy now contain,
Our brave and youthful Prince return'd again.

Welcome, in loudest Raptures cry'd the Flood,
His Welcome echo'd from each Hill and Wood;
Enough Evana, long may they contain
The noble Youth safely return'd again.
From the green Mountain where I lift my Head,
With my twin Brothers Annan and the Tweed,
To those high Arches where, as Culdees sing,
The pious Mungo fish'd the Trout and Ring.
My fairest Nymphs shall on my Margin play,
And make ev'n all the Year one holy Day.
The Sylvan Powers and Watches of each Hight,
Where Fleecy Flocks and climbing Goats delight,
Shall from their Groves and rocky Mountains roam,
To join with us, and sing his Welcome home.

235

With lofty Notes we'll sound his high Descent,
His dawning Merits and heroick Bent.
These early Rays which stedfastly shall shine,
And add new Glories to his ancient Line.
A Line ay loyal, and fir'd with generous Zeal
The bravest Patrons of the Common-weal.
From him who plung'd his Sword (so Muses sing)
Deep in his Breast, who durst defame our King.
We'll sing the Fire, which in his Bosom glows
To warm his Friends, and scorch his daring Foes;
Endow'd with all these sweet, yet manly Charms,
As fits him for the Fields of Love, or Arms.
Fixt in an high and independant State,
Above to act, what's little to be great.

Guard him, first Power, whose Hand directs the Sun,
And teaches me throw Caverns dark to run,
Long may he on his own fair Plains reside,
And Slight my Rival Thames, and love his Clyde.

The River falls over several high Precipices, such as Corrah's Lin, Stane-Byre Lin, &c.

The small River Evan which joins Clyde near Hamilton.

From the same Hill the Rivers Clyde, Tweed and Annan have their Rise, yet run to three different Seas, viz. the Northern Ocean, the German Ocean, and the Irish Sea.

The Bridge of Glasgow, where as its reported, St. Mungo the Patron of that City, drew up a Fish that brought him a Ring, which had been dropt; which Miracle Glasgow retains the Memory of in their Arms.

Vide the ingenious Mr. Patrick Gordon's Account of this Illustrious Family in his Poem on the valiant Atchievements of our great King Robert. sirnamed the Bruce, Page 45. beginning at this Stanza, the Prophet speaks to our Monarch.

Now is thy Time, quoth he, there shall arrive
A worthy Knight, that from his native Land
Shall fly, because he bravely shall deprive,
In glorious Fight, a Knight that shall withstand
Thy Praises due, while he doth thee descrive,
Yea even, this Knight shall with victorious Hand
Come here, whose Name his Seed shall eternize,
And still thy virt'ous Line shall sympathize.

236

On the most Honourable The Marquess of BOWMONT's Cutting off his Hair.

Shall Berenice's Tresses mount the Skies,
And by the Muse to shining Fame arise,
Bellinda's Lock invite the smoothest Lays
Of him whose Merit Claims the British Bays,
And not, dear Bowmont, beautiful and young,
The graceful Ringlets of thy Head be sung!
How many tender Hearts thine Eyes hath pain'd!
How many sighing Nymphs thy Locks have chain'd!

The God of Love beheld him with Envy,
And on Cyth'rea's Lap began to cry,
All drench'd in Tears, O Mother help your Son!
Else by a mortal Rival I'm undone;
With happy Charms he incroaches on my Sway,
His Beauty disconcerts the Plots I lay.
When I've made Cloe her humble Slave admire,
Straight he appears and kindles new Desire;
She sighs for him, and all my Art beguiles,
Whilst he, like me, commands and careless smiles.
Ah me! These sable Circles of his Hair,
Which wave around his Beauties red and fair,
I cannot bear! Adonis would seem dim,
With all his flaxen Locks, if plac'd by him.

Venus reply'd, No more, my dearest Boy,
Shall those inchanting Curls thy Peace destroy;
For ever sep'rate they shall cease to grow,
Or round his Cheek, or on his Shoulders flow;

237

I'll use my Slight, and make them quickly feel
Their Honour's lost by the invading Steel:
I'll turn my self in Shape of Mode and Health,
And gain upon his youthful Mind by Stealth:
Three Times the Sun shall not have rouz'd the Morn,
E'er he consent these from him shall be shorn.

The Promise she perform'd, but Labour vain,
And still shall prove, while his bright Eyes remain;
And of Revenge blind Cupid must despair,
As long's the lovely Sex are grac'd with Hair;
They'll yield the conquering Glories of their Heads,
To form around his Beauty easy Shades;
And in Return, Thalia spaes and sings,
His lop'd off Locks shall sparkle in their Rings.

TO SOME YOUNG LADIES

Who had been displeas'd at a Gentleman's too imprudently asserting, That to be condemn'd to perpetual Virginity was the greatest Punishment could be inflicted on any of their Sex.

Whether condemn'd to a Virgin State
By the superiour Powers,
Would to your Sex prove cruel Fate,
I'm sure it would to ours.

From you the numerous Nations spring,
Your Breasts our Beings save,
Your Beauties make the youthful sing,
And sooth the old and grave.

238

Alas! How soon would every Wight
Despise both Wit and Arms,
To primitive old Chaos Night
We'd sink without your Charms.

No more our Breath would be our Care,
Were Love from us exil'd,
Sent back to Heaven with all the Fair,
This World would turn a Wild.

Regardless of these sacred Tyes,
Wife, Husband, Father, Son,
All Government we would despise,
And like wild Tygers run.

Then, Ladies, pardon the Mistake,
And with th'accus'd agree,
I beg it for each Lover's sake,
Low bended on my Knee.

And frankly wish what has been said
By the audacious Youth,
Might be your Thought, but I'm afraid
It will not prove a Truth.

For often, ah! you make us groan
By your too cold Disdain,
Then quarrel with us when we moan
And rave amidst our Pain.

239

To Mr. Joseph Mitchel on the successful Representation of a Tragedy wrote by him.

But Jealousie, dear Jos, which aft gives Pain
To scrimpit Sauls, I own my sell right vain
To see a native trusty Friend of mine,
Sae brawly 'mang our bleezing Billies shine.
Yes, wherefore no, shaw them the frozen North
Can towring Minds with heav'nly Heat bring forth;
Minds that can mount with an uncommon Wing,
And frae black heath'ry headed Mountains sing,
As saft as he that Haughs Hesperian trades,
Or leans beneath the Aromatick Shades.
Bred to the Love of Lit'rature and Arms,
Still something great a Scottish Bosom warms:
Tho nurs'd on Ice, and educate in Snaw,
Honour and Liberty eags him to draw
A Hero's Sword, or an heroick Quill,
The monst'rous Faes of Right and Wit to kill.

Well may ye further in your leal Design,
To thwart the Gowks, and gar the Brethren tine
The wrang Opinion which they lang have had,
That a' which mounts the Stage—is surely bad.
Stupidly dull! But Fools ay Fools will be,
And nane's sae blind as them that winna see.
Where's Vice and Virtue set in juster Light?
Where can a glancing Genius shine mair bright?
Where can we humane Life review mair plain,
Than in the happy Plot and curious Scene?

If in themsells sic fair Designs were ill,
We ne'er had priev'd the sweet drammatick Skill
Of Congrave, Adison, Steel, Rowe, and Hill;

240

Hill, wha the highest Road to Fame doth chuse,
And has some upper Seraph for his Muse:
It maun be sae, else how could he display
With so just Strength the great tremendous Day.

Sic Patterns, Joseph, always keep in View,
Ne'er fash if ye can please the thinking Few,
Then spite of Malice Worth shall have its due.

Colin and Grisy parting.

[_]

A SONG to the Tune of Woes my Heart that we shou'd sunder.

With broken Words and downcast Eyes,
Poor Colin spoke his Passion tender,
And parting with his Grisy, cries,
Ah! Woes my Heart that we should sunder.

To others I am cold as Snow,
But kindle with thine Eyes like Tinder;
From thee with Pain I'm forc'd to go,
It breaks my Heart that we should sunder.

Chain'd to thy Charms I cannot range,
No Beauty new my Love shall hinder,
Nor Time nor Place shall ever change
My Vows, tho we're oblig'd to sunder.

The Image of thy graceful Air,
And Beauties which invite our Wonder,
Thy lively Wit and Prudence rare
Shall still be present tho we sunder.

241

Dear Nymph believe thy Swain in this,
You'l ne'er engage a Heart that's kinder,
Then seal a Promise with a Kiss,
Always to love me tho we sunder.

Ye Gods take Care of my dear Lass,
That as I leave her I may find her,
When that blest Time shall come to pass
We'll meet again and never sunder.

Spoken to two young Ladies who asked if I could say any thing on them: One excell'd in a beautiful Complection, the other in fine Eyes.

To the first.

Upon your Cheek sits blooming Youth.

To the other.

Heaven sparkles in your Eye.

To both.

There's something sweet about each Mouth,
Dear Ladies let me try.

The Mill, Mill,—O.

A SONG.

Beneath a green Shade I fand a fair Maid
Was sleeping sound and still—O,
A' lowan wi' Love my Fancy did rove,
Around her with good Will—O;

242

Her Bosom I press'd, but sunk in her Rest
She stirdna my Joy to spill—O:
While kindly she slept close to her I crept,
And kiss'd, and kiss'd her my fill—O.

Oblig'd by Command in Flanders to land,
T'employ my Courage and Skill—O;
Frae 'er quietly I staw, hois'd Sails and awa,
For Wind blew fair on the Bill—O.
Twa Years brought me hame, when loud fraising Fame
Tald me with a Voice right shill—O,
My Lass like a Fool had mounted the Stool,
Nor kend wha'd done 'er the Ill—O.

Mair fond of her Charms, with my Son in her Arms,
I ferlying speer'd how she fell—O,
Wi' a Tear in her Eye, quoth she, let me die,
Sweet Sir, gin I can tell—O.
Love gae the Command, I took her by th'Hand,
And bade her a' Fears expell—O,
And nae mair look wan, for I was the Man
Wha had done her the Deed my sell—O.

My bonny sweet Lass on the gowany Grass,
Beneath the Shilling-hill —O.
If I did Offence I'se make ye Amends
Before I leave Peggy's-Mill—O.
O the Mill, Mill—O, and the Kill, Kill—O,
And the Cogging of the Wheel—O;
The Sack and the Sive, a' thae ye maun leave,
And round with a Soger reel—O.

viz. Of Repentance.

Where they winnow the Chaff from the Corns.

243

The Poet's Wish:

An ODE.

Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem
Vates? ------
Hor.

Frae great Apollo, Poet say,
What is thy Wish, what wadst thou hae,
When thou bows at his Shrine?
Not Karss o' Gowrie's fertile Field,
Nor a' the Flocks the Grampians yield,
That are baith sleek and fine:
Not costly Things brought frae afar,
As Ivory, Pearl and Gems;
Nor those fair Straths that water'd are
With Tay and Tweed's smooth Streams,
Which gentily and daintily
Eat down the flowry Braes,
As greatly and quietly
They wimple to the Seas.

Whaever by his kanny Fate
Is Master of a good Estate,
That can ilk Thing afford,
Let him enjoy't withoutten Care,
And with the Wale of curious Fare
Cover his ample Board.

244

Much dawted by the Gods is he,
Wha to the Indian Plain,
Successfu' ploughs the wally Sea,
And safe returns again,
With Riches that hitches
Him high aboon the rest
Of sma' Fowk, and a' Fowk
That are wi' Poortith prest.

For me I can be well content
To eat my Bannock on the Bent,
And kitchen't wi' fresh Air;
Of Lang-kail I can make a Feast,
And cantily had up my Crest,
And laugh at Dishes rare.
Nought frae Apollo I demand,
But throw a lengthen'd Life
My outer Fabrick firm may stand,
And Saul clear without Strife.
May he then but gie then
Those Blessings for my Skair,
I'll fairly and squairly
Quite a' and seek nae mair.

The Response of the Oracle.

To keep thy Saul frae puny Strife,
And heeze thee out of vulgar Life,
We in a morning Dream
Whisper'd our Will concerning thee,
To Marlus stretch'd beneath a Tree,
Hard by a pop'ling Stream,
He full of me shall point the Way,
Where thou a Star shalt see,
The Influence of whose bright Ray,
Shall wing thy Muse to flee.
Mair speer na, and fear na,
But set thy Mind to rest,
Aspire ay still high'r ay,
And always hope the best.

Among the Lauriston Castle MSS., National Library of Scotland, is a holograph of this poem. The phrasing differs in many places from that here given. See Prefatory Note to this volume. —(Edd.)

A large and fertile Plain on the Tay, in the Shire of Perth.

245

THE CONCLUSION.

After the Manner of Horace, ad librum suum.

Dear vent'rous Book, e'en take thy Will,
And scowp around the Warld thy fill:
Wow! ye're newfangle to be seen,
In guilded Turky clade, and clean.
Daft giddy Thing! to dare thy Fate,
And spang o'er Dikes that scar the blate:
But mind when anes ye're to the Bent,
(Altho in vain) ye may repent.
Alake, I'm flied thou aften meet,
A Gang that will thee sourly treat,
And ca' thee dull for a' thy Pains,
When Damps distress their drouzie Brains.
I dinna doubt whilst thou art new,
Thoul't Favour find frae not a few,
But when thou'rt rufl'd and forfairn,
Sair thumb'd by ilka Coof or Bairn;
Then, then by Age ye may grow wise,
And ken things common gies nae Price.
I'd fret, wae's me! to see the lye
Beneath the Bottom of a Pye,
Or cow'd out Page by Page to wrap
Up Snuff, or Sweeties in a Shap.

Away sic Fears, gae spread my Fame,
And fix me an immortal Name;
Ages to come shall thee revive,
And gar thee with new Honours live.

246

The future Criticks I forsee
Shall have their Notes on Notes on thee:
The Wits unborn shall Beauties find
That never enter'd in my Mind.

Now when thou tells how I was bred,
But hough enough to a mean Trade;
To ballance that, pray let them ken
My Saul to higher Pitch cou'd sten:
And when ye shaw I'm scarce of Gear,
Gar a' my Virtues shine mair clear.
Tell, I the best and fairest please,
A little Man that loo's my Ease,
And never thole these Passions lang
That rudely mint to do me wrang.

Gin ony want to ken my Age,
See Anno Dom. on Title Page;
This Year when Springs by Care and Skill
The spacious leaden Conduits fill,
And first flow'd up the Castle-hill.
When South-Sea Projects cease to thrive,
And only North-Sea seems alive,
Tell them your Author's Thirty five.

Very indifferently.

The new Lead Pipes for conveying Water to Edinburgh, of 4 1/2 Inches Diameter within, and 6/10 of an Inch in thickness; all cast in a Mould invented by the ingenious Mr. Harding of London.