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

Bedoun the Bents of Banquo Brae
Milane I wandert waif and wae,
Musand our main Mischaunce;
How be thay Faes we ar undone,
That staw the sacred Stane frae Scone,
And leids us sic a Daunce:
Quhyle Inglands Edert taks our Tours,
And Scotland ferst obeys,
Rude Ruffians ransakk Ryal Bours,
And Baliol Homage pays;
Throch Feidom our Freidom
Is blotit with this Skore,
Quhat Romans or no Mans
Pith culd eir do befoir

II

The Air grew ruch with bousteous Thuds,
Bauld Boreas branglit outthrow the Cluds,
Maist lyke a drunken Wicht;
The Thunder crakt, and Flauchts did rift
Frae the blak Vissart of the Lift:
The Forrest schuke with Fricht;
Nae Birds abune thair Wing extenn,
They ducht not byde the Blast,
Ilk Beist bedeen bangd to thair Den,
Until the Storm was past:
Ilk Creature in Nature
That had a Spunk of Sence,
In Neid then, with Speid then,
Methocht cryt, in Defence.

III

To se a Morn in May sae ill,
I deimt Dame Nature was gane will,
To rair with rackles Reil;
Quhairfor to put me out of Pain,
And skonce my Skap and Shanks frae Rain,
I bure me to a Beil,
Up ane hich Craig that lundgit alaft,
Out owre a canny Cave,
A curious Cruif of Natures Craft,
Quhilk to me Schelter gaif;
Ther vexit, perplexit,
I leint me doun to weip,
In brief ther, with Grief ther
I dottard owre on Sleip.

IV

Heir Somnus in his silent Hand
Held all my Sences at Command,
Quhyle I forzet my Cair;
The myldest Meid of mortall Wichts
Quha pass in Peace the private Nichts,
That wauking finds it rare;
Sae in saft Slumbers did I ly,
But not my wakryfe Mynd,
Quhilk still stude Watch, and couth espy
A Man with Aspeck kynd,
Richt auld lyke and bauld lyke,
With Baird thre Quarters skant,
Sae braif lyke and graif lyke,
He seemt to be a Sanct.

V

Grit Darring dartit frae his Ee,
A Braid-sword schogled at his Thie,
On his left Arm a Targe;
A shynand Speir filld his richt Hand,
Of stalwart Mak, in Bane and Brawnd,
Of just Proportions, large;
A various Rain-bow colourt Plaid
Owre his left Spaul he threw,
Doun his braid Back, frae his quhyt Heid,
The Silver Wymplers grew;
Amaisit, I gaisit
To se, led at Command,
A strampant and rampant
Ferss Lyon in his Hand.

VI

Quhilk held a Thistle in his Paw,
And round his Collar graift I saw
This Poesie pat and plain,
Nemo me impune lacess—
—Et:—In Scots, Nane sall oppress
Me, unpunist with Pain;
Still schaking, I durst naithing say,
Till he with Kynd Accent
Sayd, Fere let nocht thy Hairt affray,
I cum to hier thy Plaint;
Thy graining and maining
Haith laitlie reikd myne Eir,
Debar then affar then
All Eiryness or Feir.

VII

For I am ane of a hie Station,
The Warden of this auntient Nation,
And can nocht do the Wrang;
I vissyt him then round about,
Syne with a Resolution stout,
Speird, Quhair he had bene sae lang?
Quod he, Althocht I sum forsuke,
Becaus they did me slicht,
To Hills and Glens I me betuke,
To them that luves my Richt;
Quhase Mynds zet inclynds zet
To damm the rappid Spate,
Devysing and prysing
Freidom at ony Rate.

VIII

Our Trechour Peirs thair Tyranns treit,
Quha jyb them, and thair Substance eit,
And on thair Honour stramp;
They, pure degenerate! bend thair Baks,
The Victor, Langshanks, proudly cracks
He has blawn out our Lamp:
Quhyle trew Men, sair complainand, tell,
With Sobs, thair silent Greif,
How Baliol thair Richts did sell,
With small Howp of Reliefe;
Regretand and fretand
Ay at his cursit Plot,
Quha rammed and crammed
That Bargin doun thair Throt.

IX

Braif Gentrie sweir, and Burgers ban,
Revenge is muttert be ilk Clan
Thats to their Nation trew;
The Cloysters cum to cun the Evil,
Mailpayers wiss it to the Devil,
With its contryving Crew:
The Hardy wald with hairty Wills,
Upon dyre Vengance fall;
The feckless fret owre Heuchs and Hills,
And Eccho Answers all,
Repetand and greitand,
With mony a sair Alace,
For Blasting and Casting
Our Honour in Disgrace.

X

Waes me! quod I, our Case is bad,
And mony of us are gane mad,
Sen this disgraceful Paction.
We are felld and herryt now by Forse;
And hardly Help fort, thats zit warse,
We are sae forfairn with Faction.
Then has not he gude Cause to grumble,
Thats forst to be a Slaif;
Oppression dois the Judgment Jumble
And gars a wyse Man raif.
May Cheins then, and Pains then
Infernal be thair Hyre
Quha dang us, and flang us
Into this ugsum Myre.

XI

Then he with bauld forbidding Luke,
And staitly Air did me rebuke,
For being of Sprite sae mein:
Said he its far beneath a Scot
To use weak Curses quhen his Lot
May sumtyms sour his Splein,
He rather sould mair lyke a Man,
Some braif Design attempt;
Gif its nocht in his Pith, what than,
Rest but a Quhyle content,
Nocht feirful, but cheirful,
And wait the Will of Fate,
Which mynds to desygns to
Renew zour auntient State.

XII

I ken sum mair than ze do all
Of quhat sall afterwart befall,
In mair auspicious Tymes;
For aften far abufe the Mune,
We watching Beings do convene,
Frae round Eards outmost Climes,
Quhair evry Warden represents
Cleirly his Nations Case,
Gif Famyne, Pest, or Sword Torments,
Or Vilains hie in Place,
Quha keip ay, and heip ay
Up to themselves grit Store,
By rundging and spunging
The leil laborious Pure.

XIII

Say then, said I, at zour hie Sate,
Lernt ze ocht of auld Scotland's Fate.
Gif eir schoil be her sell;
With Smyle Celest, quod he, I can,
But its nocht fit an mortal Man
Sould ken all I can tell:
But Part to the I may unfold,
And thou may saifly ken,
Quhen Scottish Peirs slicht Saxon Gold,
And turn trew heartit Men;
Quhen Knaivry and Slaivrie,
Ar equally dispysd,
And Loyalte and Royalte,
Universalie are prysd.

XIV

Quhen all zour Trade is at a Stand,
And Cunzie clene forsaiks the Land,
Quhilk will be very sune,
Will Preists without their Stypands preich
For nocht will Lawyers Causes Streich;
Faith thatis nae easy done.
All this and mair maun cum to pass,
To cleir zour glamourit Sicht;
And Scotland maun be made an Ass
To set her Jugment richt.
Theyil jade hir and blad hir,
Untill scho brak hir Tether,
Thocht auld schois zit bauld schois,
And teuch lyke barkit Lether.

XV

But mony a Corss sall braithles ly,
And Wae sall mony a Widow cry,
Or all rin richt again;
Owre Cheviot prancing proudly North,
The Faes sall tak the Feild neir Forthe,
And think the Day their ain:
But Burns that Day sall rin with Blude
Of them that now oppress;
Thair Carcasses be Corbys Fude,
By thousands on the Gress.
A King then sall ring then,
Of wyse Renoun and braif,
Quhase Pusians and Sapiens,
Sall Richt restoir and saif.

XVI

The View of Freidomis sweit, quod I,
O say, grit Tennant of the Skye,
How neiris that happie Tyme.
We ken Things but be Circumstans,
Nae mair, quod he, I may advance,
Leist I commit a Cryme.
Quhat eir ze pleis, gae on, quod I,
I sall not fash ze moir,
Say how, and quhair ze met, and quhy,
As ze did hint befoir.
With Air then sae fair then,
That glanst like Rayis of Glory,
Sae Godlyk and oddlyk
He thus resumit his Storie.

XVII

Frae the Suns Rysing to his Sett,
All the pryme Rait of Wardens met,
In solemn bricht Array,
With Vehicles of Aither cleir,
Sic we put on quhen we appeir
To Sauls rowit up in Clay;
Thair in a wyde and splendit Hall,
Reird up with shynand Beims,
Quhais Rufe-treis wer of Rainbows all,
And paist with starrie Gleims,
Quhilk prinked and twinkled
Brichtly beyont Compair,
Much famed and named
A Castill in the Air.

XVIII

In midst of quhilk a Tabill stude,
A spacious Oval reid as Blude,
Made of a Fyre-Flaucht,
Arround the dazeling Walls were drawn,
With Rays be a celestial Hand,
Full mony a curious Draucht.
Inferiour Beings flew in Haist,
Without Gyd or Derectour,
Millions of Myles throch the wyld Waste,
To bring in Bowlis of Nectar:
Then roundly and soundly
We drank lyk Roman Gods;
Quhen Jove sae dois rove sae,
That Mars and Bacchus nods.

XIX

Quhen Phebus Heid turns licht as Cork,
And Neptune leans upon his Fork,
And limpand Vulcan blethers:
Quhen Pluto glowrs as he were wyld,
And Cupid luves we wingit Chyld,
Fals down and fyls his Fethers.
Quhen Pan forzets to tune his Reid,
And slings it cairless bye,
And Hermes wingd at Heils and Heid,
Can nowther stand nor lye:
Quhen staggirand and swaggirand,
They stoyter Hame to sleip,
Quhyle Centeries at Enteries
Imortal Watches keip.

XX

Thus we tuke in the high browin Liquour,
And bangd about the Nectar Biquour;
But evir with his Ods:
We neir in Drink our Judgments drensch,
Nor scour about to seik a Wensch
Lyk these auld baudy Gods,
But franklie at ilk uther ask,
Quhats proper we suld know,
How ilk ane hes performt the Task,
Assigned to him below.
Our Minds then sae kind then,
Are fixt upon our Care,
Ay noting and ploting
Quhat tends to thair Weilfair.

XXI

Gothus and Vandall baith lukt bluff,
Quhyle Gallus sneerd and tuke a Snuff,
Quhilk made Allmane to stare;
Latinus bad him naithing feir,
But lend his Hand to haly Weir,
And of cowd Crouns tak Care;
Batavius with his Paddock-Face
Luking asquint, cryd, Pisch,
Zour Monks ar void of Sence or Grace,
I had leur ficht for Fisch;
Zour Schule-men ar Fule-men,
Carvit out for dull Debates,
Decoying and destroying
Baith Monarchies and States.

XXII

Iberius with a gurlie Nod
Cryd, Hogan, zes we ken zour God,
Its Herrings ze adore;
Heptarchus, as he usd to be,
Can nocht with his ain Thochts agre,
But varies bak and fore;
Ane quhyle he says, It is not richt
A Monarch to resist,
Neist Braith all Ryall Powir will slicht,
And passive Homage jest;
He hitches and fitches
Betwein the Hic and Hoc,
Ay jieand and flieand
Round lyk a Wedder-cock.

XXIII

I still support my Precedens
Abune them all, for Sword and Sens,
Thocht I haif layn richt now lown,
Quhylk was, becaus I bure a Grudge
At sum fule Scotis, quha lykd to drudge
To Princes no thair awin;
Sum Thanis thair Tennants pykit and squeist,
And pursit up all thair Rent,
Syne wallopit to far Courts, and bleist,
Till Riggs and Schaws war spent;
Syne byndging and whyndging,
Quhen thus redusit to Howps,
They dander and wander
About pure Lickmadowps.

XXIV

But now its Tyme for me to draw
My shynand Sword against Club-Law,
And gar my Lyon roir;
He sall or lang gie sic a Sound,
The Ecchoe sall be hard arround
Europe, frae Schore to Schore;
Then lat them gadder all thair Strenth,
And stryve to wirk my Fall,
Tho numerous, zit at the lenth
I will owrecum them all,
And raise zit and blaze zit
My Braifrie and Renown,
By gracing and placing
Arright the Scottis Crown.

XXV

Quhen my braif Bruce the same sall weir
Upon his Ryal Heid, full cleir
The Diadem will shyne;
Then sall zour sair Oppression ceis,
His Intrest zours he will not fleice,
Or leif zou eir inclyne:
Thocht Millions to his Purse be lent,
Zell neir the puirer be,
But rather richer, quhyle its spent
Within the Scottish Se:
The Field then sall zeild then
To honest Husbands Welth,
Gude Laws then sall cause then
A sickly State haif Helth.

XXVI

Quhyle thus he talkit, methocht ther came
A wondir fair Etherial Dame,
And to our Warden sayd,
Grit Callidon I cum in Serch
Of zou, frae the hych starry Arch,
The Counsill wants zour Ayd;
Frae every Quarter of the Sky,
As swift as Quhirl-wynd,
With Spirits speid the Chiftains hy,
Sum grit Thing is desygnd
Owre Muntains be Funtains,
And round ilk fairy Ring,
I haif chaist ze, O haist ze,
They talk about zour King.

XXVII

With that my Hand methocht he schuke,
And wischt I Happyness micht bruke,
To eild be Nicht and Day;
Syne quicker than an Arrows Flicht,
He mountit upwarts frae my Sicht,
Straicht to the milkie Way;
My Mynd him followit throw the Skyes,
Untill the brynie Streme
For Joy ran trinckling frae myne Eyes,
And wakit me frae Dreme;
Then peiping, half sleiping,
Frae furth my rural Beild,
It eisit me and pleisit me
To se and smell the Feild.

XXVIII

For Flora in hir clene Array,
New washen with a Showir of May,
Lukit full sweit and fair;
Quhyle hir cleir Husband frae aboif
Sched doun his Rayis of genial Luve,
Hir Sweits perfumt the Air;
The Winds war husht, the Welkin cleird,
The glumand Clouds war fled,
And all as saft and gay appeird
As ane Elysion Sched;
Quhilk heisit and bleisit
My Heart with sic a Fyre,
As raises these Praises
That do to Heaven aspyre.

Quod Ar. Scot.

The History of the Scots Sufferings, by the unworthy Condescension of Baliol to Edward I of England, till they recovered their Independence by the Conduct and Valour of the Great BRUCE, is so universally known, that any Argument to this antique Poem seems useless.

The old Chair (now in Westminster Abbey) in which the Scots Kings were always crown'd, wherein there is a Piece of Marble with this Inscription;

Ni fallat fatum, SCOTI, quocunque locatum
Invenient lapidem, regnare tenentur ibidem.

THE Eagle and Robin Red-breist

The Prince of all the fethert Kynd,
That with spred Wings out fleis the Wind,
And tours far out of humane Sicht
To view the schynand Orb of Licht:
This Ryall Bird, tho braif and great,
And armit strang for stern Debait,
Nae Tyrant is but condescends
Aftymes to treit inferiour Friends.
Ane Day at his Command did flock
To his hie Palace on a Rock,
The Courtiers of ilk various Syze
That swiftly swim in Christal Skyis;

Thither the valiant Tersals doup,
And heir rapacious Corbies croup,
With greidy Gleds and slie Gormahs,
And dinsome Pyis and clatterin Daws;
Proud Pecocks, and a hundred mae,
Bruscht up thair Pens that solemn Day,
Bowd first submissive to my Lord,
Then tuke thair Places at his Borde.
Mein Tyme quhyle feisting on a Fawn,
And drinking Blude frae Lamies drawn,
A tunefull Robin trig and zung,
Hard by upon a Bour-tree sung.
He sang the Eagles Ryall Lyne,
His persing Ee and Richt divyne,
To sway out-owre the fetherit Thrang,
Quha dreid his martial Bill and sang:
His Flicht sublime, and Eild renewit,
His Mynd with Clemencie endewit;
In safter Notes he sang his Luve,
Mair hie his beiring Bolts for Jove.

The Monarch Bird with Blythness hard
The chaunting litil Silvan Bard,
Calit up a Buzart, quha was than
His Favourite and Chamberlane.
Swith to my Treasury, quod he,
And to zon canty Robin gie
As mekle of our currant Geir
As may mentain him throw the Zeir;
We can weil spairt, and its his Due,
He bad, and furth the Judas flew,
Straight to the Brench quhair Robin sung,
And with a wickit lieand Tung,
Said, Ah! ze sing sae dull and ruch,
Ze haif deivt our Lugs mair than enuch,

His Majestie hes a nyse Eir,
And nae mair of zour Stuff can beir;
Poke up zour Pypes, be nae mair sene
At Court, I warn ze as a Frein.

He spak, quhyle Robinis swelling Breist,
And drouping Wings his Greif,
The Teirs ran happing doun his Cheik,
Grit grew his Hairt, he could nocht speik,
No for the Tinsell of Rewaird,
But that his Notis met nae Regaird;
Straicht to the Schaw he spred his Wing,
Resolvit again nae mair to sing,
Quhair Princelie Bountie is supprest,
By sic with quhome they are opprest,
Quha cannot beir (because they want it)
That ocht suld be to Merit grantit.

Quod Ar. Scot.

POSTSCRIPT

[_]

[To Dunbar's Lament for the Makaris]

Suthe I forsie, if Spae-craft had,
Frae Hethir-Muirs sall ryse a Lad,
Aftir twa Centries pas, sall he
Revive our Fame and Memorie.

Then sall we flourish Evir Grene;
All thanks to carefull Bannantyne,
And to the Patron kind and frie,
Quha lends the Lad baith them and me.

Far sall we fare, baith Eist and West,
Owre ilka Clyme by Scots possest;
Then sen our Warks sall nevir die,
Timor mortis non turbat me.

Quod Dunbar.

Patron, Mr William Carmichael, Brother to the Earl of Hyndford, who lent A. R. that curious MSS. collected by Mr. George Bannantyne, Anno 1568, from whence these Poems are printed.

AN ODE Sacred to the MEMORY Of Her Grace ANNE Dutchess of HAMILTON .

Let Angels with their silver Wings o'ershade,
The Ground now sacred by her Reliques made.
Pope.

Why sounds the Plain with sad Complaint?
Why hides the Sun his Beams?
Why sighs the Winds sae bleak and cauld?
Why mourn the swelling Streams?

Wail on ye Heights, ye Glens complain,
Sun wear thy cloudy Veil:
Sigh Winds frae frozen Caves of Snaw;
Clyde mourn the rueful Tale.

She's dead, the Beauteous Anna's dead,
All Nature wears a Gloom:
Alas! the comely budding Flower,
Is faded in the Bloom.

Clos'd in the weeping Marble Vault,
Now cauld and blae she lies,
Nae mair the Smiles adorn her Cheek,
Nae mair she lifts her Eyes.

Too soon, O sweetest, fairest, best;
Young Parent, lovely Mate,
Thou leaves thy LORD and Infant SON,
To weep thy early Fate.

But late thy chearfu' Marriage-Day,
Gave Gladness all around;
But late in thee, the youthful Chief,
A Heaven of Blessings found.

His Bosom swells, for much he lov'd,
Words fail to paint his Greif;
He starts in Dream, and grasps thy Shade,
The Day brings nae Relief.

The fair Illusion skims away,
And Grief again returns,
Life's Pleasure make a vain Attempt,
Disconsolate he mourns:

He mourns his Loss, a Nation's Loss,
It claims a Flood of Tears;
When sic a lov'd illustrious Star,
Sae quickly disappears.

With Roses and the Lilly Buds,
Ye Nymphs her Grave adorn,
And weeping tell, thus Sweet she was,
Thus early from us Torn.

To silent Twilight Shades retire,
Ye melancholy Swains,
In melting Notes repete her Praise,
In sighing vent your Pains.

But haste, calm Reason, to our Aid,
And paining Thoughts subdue,
By placing of the pious Fair,
In a mair pleasing View.

100

Whose white immortal Mind now shines,
And shall for ever bright,
Above th'Insult of Death and Pain,
By the first Spring of Light.

There joins the high melodious Thrang,
That strike eternal Strings;
In Presence of Omnipotence,
She now a Seraph sings.

Then cease Great JAMES thy flowing Tears,
Nor rent thy Soul in vain:
Frae Bowers of Bless she'll ne'er return
To thy kind Arms again.

With Goodness still adorn thy Mind,
True Greatness still improve;
Be still a PATRIOT, just and brave,
And meet thy SAINT above.

A.R.