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

Deep in a narrow craiged Pig
Lay mony a dainty Nut and Fig.
A greedy Callan, haf a Sot,
Shot his wee Nive into the Pot,
And thought to bring as mony out
As a' his Fangs cou'd gang about;
But the strait Neck o't wadna suffer
The Hand of this young foolish Truffer,
Sae struted, to return again,
Which gae the Gowkie nae sma' Pain.
He gowls to be sae disappointed,
And drugs till he has 'maist disjointed,
His Shekelbane.—Anither Lad
Stood by, wha some mair Judgment had,
Said, Billy, dinna grip at a',
And you with Ease, a Part may draw.
This same Advice, to Men I'd lend,
Ne'er for o'er much at anes contend,
But take the cannyest Gate to Ease,
And pike out Joys by Twa's and Three's.

The Man with the twa Wives.

In antient Tales, there is a Story,
Of ane had twa Wives, Whig and Tory.
The Carlie's Head, was now attir'd
With Hair, in equal Mixture, lyart.

107

His Wives (Faith an might well suffic'd)
Alternately was ay ill pleas'd;
They being reverse to ane another
In Age and Faith, made a curs'd Pother
Whilk of the twa shou'd bear the Bell,
And make their Man maist like themsell.
Auld Meg, the Tory, took great Care,
To weed out ilka Sable Hair,
Plucking out all that look'd like Youth,
Frae Crown of Head, to Weeks of Mouth;
Saying, That baith in Head and Face
Antiquity was Mark of Grace.
But Bess, the Whig, a Raving Rump,
Took Figmaliries, and wald jump,
With Sword and Pistol, by her Side,
And Cock-a-stride arowing ride,
On the Hag-riden Sumph, and grapple
Him hard and fast about the Thraple;
And with her furious Fingers whirle,
Frae youthfu' Black ilk Silver Curle.
Thus was he serv'd between the twa,
'Till no ae Hair he had ava.

MORAL

The Moral of this Fable's easy,
But I sall speak it out to please ye.
'Tis and auld Saying and a trow,
Between twa Stools the Arse fa's throw.
Thus Britain's Morals are much plucked,
While by two opposites instructed:
Who still contending have the Trick,
The strongest Truths to contradict;
Tho' Orthodox, they'll Error make it,
If Party opposite has spake it.
Thus are we keytch'd between the twa,
Like to turn Deists, ane and a'.

108

Fable of the Condemn'd Ass.

A dreadful Plague, the like was sindle seen,
Coost mony a Beast, Wame upwards on the Green:
By thousands down to Acheron they sank,
To dander Ages on the dowie Bank;
Because they lay unburied on the Sward,
The sick Survivers cou'dna give them Eard.
The Wowf and Tod, with sighing spent the Day:
Their sickly Stamacks scunner'd at the Prey:
Fowls droop the Wing, the Bull neglects his Love:
Scarce crawl the Sheep, and weakly Horses move.
The bauldest Brute, that haunt Numidian Glens,
Ly panting out their Lives in dreary Dens.
Thick lay the dead, and thick the pain'd and weak,
The Prospect gart the awfu' Lyon quake.

He ca's a Council.—Ah! my Friends, said he,
'Tis for some horrid Faut sae mony die,
Sae Heaven permits.—Then let us a' confess
With open Breast, our Crimes baith mair and less;
That the revengefu' Gods may be appeas'd,
When the maist guilty Wight is sacrific'd.
Fa't on the Feyest,—I shall first begin,
And awn what e'er my Conscience ca's a Sin.
The Sheep and Deer I've worried, now alace!
Crying for Vengeance, glowr me i' the Face:
Forby their Herd, poor Man! to Crown my Treat,
Limb after Limb, with bloody Jaws I ate:
Ah! Glutton me! what murders have I done!—
Now say about, confess ilk ane as soon
And frank as I.—Sire, says the pawky Tod,
Your tenderness bespeaks you haf a God!
Worthy to be the Monarch of the Grove,
Worthy your Friends, and a' your Subjects Love.
Your scruples are too nice.—What's Harts or Sheep
An Idiot Crowd, which for your Board ye keep;

109

And where's the Sin, for ane to take his ain,
Faith 'tis their Honour, when by you they're slain.
Neist, What's their Herd?—A Man! our deadly Fae,
Wha o'er us Beasts, pretends a fancy'd Sway,
And ne'er makes Banes o't, when 'tis in his Power,
With Guns and Bows, our Nation to devour.
He said.—and round the Courtiers all and each,
Applauded Lawrie for his winsome Speech.

The Tyger, Bair, and ev'ry powerfu' Fur,
Down to the Wilcat, and the snarling Cur
Confest their Crimes; but wha durst ca' them Crimes
Except themsells.—

The Ass, dull Thing! neist in his Turn confest,
That being with Hunger very sair opprest,
In o'er a Dike, he shot his Head ae Day,
And rugg'd three Mouthfu's off a Ruck of Hay
But speering Leave.—Said he, Some wicked Deil,
Did tempt me frae the Parish Priest to steal.
He said.—And all at ains, the powerfu' Croud,
With open Throats cry'd hastily and loud,
This Gypsie Ass, deserves ten Deaths to die,
Whase horid Guilt, brings on our Misery.
A gaping Wowf, in Office, straight demands,
To have him burnt, or tear him where he stands:
Hanging, he said, was an o'er easy Death,
He shou'd in Tortures yield his latest Breath.
What break a Bishops Yard! Ah crying Guilt!
Which nought can expiate till his Blood be spilt.—
The Lyon signs his Sentence, Hang and draw;—
Sae poor lang Lugs maun pay the Kane for a'.
Hence we may ken, how Power has eith the Knack,
To whiten red, and gar the blew seem black;
They'll start at Winle Straes, yet never crook,
When Interest bids, to lowp out o'er a Stowk.

110

The Gods of Egypt

Langsyne in Egypt Beasts were Gods,
Sae mony that the Men turn'd Beasts;
Vermin and Brutes, but House or Hald,
Had Offerings, Temples and their Priests.

Ae Day a Rattan, white as Milk,
At a Cat's Shrine was sacrific'd,
And Pompous on the Altar bled:
The Victim much God Badrans pleas'd.

The neist Day was God Ratan's Tour;
And that he might propitious Smile,
A Cat is to his Temple brought,
Priests singing round him a' the while.

Odes, Anthems, Hymns, in Verse and Prose,
With Instruments of solemn Sound,
Praying the lang tail'd Diety [Sic]
To bless their Faulds and furrow'd Ground.

O plague us not with Cats they cry'd,
For this we cut ane's Throat to Thee.—
A bonny God, indeed! quoth Puss,
Can ye believe sae great a Lie.

What am I then, that eat your God,
And Yesterday to me ye bow'd;
This Day I'm to that Vermin offer'd,
God save us! ye're a senseless Crowd.

The close Reflection gart them glowr,
And shook their Thoughts haf out of Joint;
But rather than be fash'd with Thought,
They gart the Ax decide the Point.

111

Thus we're Egyptians ane and a',
Our Passions Gods, that gar us swither,
Which just as the Occasion serves,
We sacrifice to ane anither.

The Spectacles

Ae Day when Jove, the High Director,
Was merry o'er a Bowl of Nectar,
Resolv'd a Present to bestow,
On the Inhabitants below.
Momus, wha likes his Joke and Wine,
Was sent frae Heaven with the Propine:
Fast throw the Aether-fields he whirl'd
His rapid Car, and reach'd the Warld:
Conveen'd Mankind, and told them Jove
Had sent a Token of his Love,
Considering that they were short sighted,
That Faut shou'd presently be righted.
Syne loos'd his Wallet frae the Pillions,
And toss'd out Spectacles by Millions.
There were enow, and ilk an chose,
His Pair and cock'd them on his Nose:
And thankfully their Knees they bended
To Heaven, that thus their Sight had mended.
Streight Momus hameward took his Flight,
Laughing fou'd loud, as well he might.
For ye maun ken, 'tis but o'er true,
The Glasses were some Red, some Blue,
Some Black, some White, some Brown, some Green,
Which made the same Thing different seem.
Now all was wrong, and all was right,
For ilk believ'd his aided Sight,
And did the Joys of Truth partake,
In the absurdest gross Mistake.

112

The Fox turn'd Preacher

A THOUGHT

A learned Fox grown stiff with Eild,
Unable now in open Field,
By Speed of Foot and clever Stends,
To seize and worry Lambs and Hens;
But Lowry never wants a Shift,
To help him out at a dead Lift.
He cleath'd himsell in Reverend Dress,
And turn'd a Preacher.—Nathing less!
Held forth wi' Birr, 'gainst Wier unjust,
'Gainst Theft and gormondizing Lust:
Clear was his Voice, his Tone was sweet,
In Zeal and Mien he seem'd complete;
Sae grave and humble was his Air,
His Character shin'd wide and fair.
'Tis said the Lyon had a Mind
To hear him.—But Mess Fox declin'd
That Honour.—Reasons on his Side,
Said that might snare him into Pride.
But Sheep and Powtry, Geese and Ducks,
Came to his Meeting-Hole in Flocks:
Of being his Prey, they had nae Fear;
His Text the contrary made clear.

Curst be that Animal voracious,
Cry'd he, sae cruel and ungracious,
That chuses Flesh to be his Food,
And takes Delight in waughting Blood.
What? live by Murder!—horrid Deed,
While we have Trees, and ilka Mead,
Finely enrich'd with Herbs and Fruits,
To serve and please the nicest Brutes.
We shou'd respect, Dearly Belov'd,
What e'er by Breath of Life is mov'd.
First, 'tis unjust, and Secondly,
'Tis Cruel—and a Cruelty,

113

By which we are expos'd,—O sad!
To eat perhaps our Lucky-dad;
For ken, my Friend, the Saul ne'er dies,
But frae the failing Body flies;
Leaves it to rot, and seeks anither:
Thus young Miss Goose may be my Mither.
The bloody Wowf, seeking his Prey,
His Father in a Sheep may slay;
And I in worrying Lambs or Cocks,
Might choak my Gransire Doctor Fox.
Ah! Heaven protect me frae sic Crimes:
I'd rather die a thousand Times.

Thus our Bob-tail'd Pythagoras preach'd,
And with loud Cant, his Lungs out-stretch'd.
His Sermon sounded o'er the Dale,
While thus he moraliz'd with Zeal.
His Glass spun out,—He ceast, admir'd
By all, who joyfully retir'd.

But after a' the lave was gane,
Some Geese, twa Chickens and a Hen,
Thought fit to stay a little Space,
To tawk about some kittle Case.
The Doctor hem'd! and in he drew them,
Then quiet and decently he slew them;
On whom he fed the good auld Way.
These who wan aff, thrice happy they.

The Bee and the Fly

Before his Hive, a paughty Bee,
Observ'd a humble Midding Flie,
And proudly speer'd what brought her there,
And with what Front she durst repair,
Amang the Regents of the Air.

114

It sets ye well, the fly reply'd,
To quarrel with sic sawcy Pride.
Thay're daft indeed, has ought to do,
With thrawin Contentious Fowk like you.
Why, Scoundrel, you, return'd the Bee,
What Nation is sae wise as we?
Best Laws and Policy is ours,
And our Repast the fragrant Flowers.
No sordid nasty Trade we drive,
But with Sweet Honey fill the Hive;
Honey maist gratefu' to the Taste,
On which the Gods themsells may feast.
Out of my Sight, vile Wretch, whose Tongue
Is daily slacking throw the Dung:
Vile Spirits, filthily content
To feed on stinking Excrement.
The Fly replied, in sober Way,
Faith we maun live as well's we may:
Glad Poverty was ne'er a Vice,
But sure, ill-natur'd Passion is.
Your Honey's sweet; but then how tart,
And bitter's your malicious Heart!
In making Laws you copy Heaven,
But in your Conduct how uneven!
To fash at ony Time a Fae,
Ye'll never stick ye'r Sells to slae;
And skaith your sell mair sickerly,
Than e'er ye can your Enemy.
At that Rate, ane had better have
Less Talents, if they can behave
Discreet, and less their Passions slave.

The Horse's Complaint

Ah, what a wretch'd unlucky Corse
Am I!—crys a poor Hireling Horse;
Toil'd a' the Day quite aff my Feet,
With little Time, or ought to eat;

115

By break of Day up frae my Bed
Of Dirt, I'm rais'd to draw the Sled,
Or Cart, as haps to my Wanluck,
To ca' in Coals or out the Muck;
Or drest in Sadle, Howse, and Bridle,
To Gallop with some Gamphrel idle,
That for his Hiring Pint and Shilling,
Obliges me, tho' maist unwilling,
With Whip, and Spur sunk in my Side,
O'er Heights and Hows all Day to ride,
While he neglects my hungry Wame,
'Till aft I fa' and make him lame.
Who curses me should ban himsell,
He starv'd me, I with Faintness fell.

How happy lives our Baron's Ape,
That's good for nought, but girn and gape,
Or round about the Lasses flee,
And lift their Coats aboon their Knee;
To frisk and jump frae Stool to Stool,
Turn up his Bum, and play the Fool:
Aft rives a Mutch, or steals a Spoon,
And burns the Bairns' Hose and Shoon—
Yet while I'm starving in the Stable,
This Villain's cock'd upon the Table,
There fed and roos'd by all around him,—
By Foolish Chiels, the Pox confound them.

My Friend, says a dowse headed Ox,
Our Knight is e'en like other Folks:
For 'tis not them who labour maist
That commonly are paid the best.
Then ne'er cast up what ye deserve,
Since better 'tis to please than serve.

116

The Parrat

An honest Man had tint his Wife,
And, wearied of a dowy Life,
Thought a Perroquet bade maist fair,
With tatling to divert his Care:
For the good Woman sair he griev'd;
He'ad needed nane if she had liv'd!

Streight to a Bird man's Shop he hies,
Who, stock'd with a' that wing the Skies,
And give Delight with Feathers fair,
Or please with a Melodious Air,
Larks, Gowdspinks, Mavises and Linties,
Baith hame bred, and frae foreign Countries;
Of Parrats he had curious Choice,
Carefully bred to make a Noise:
The very warst had learn'd his Tale,
To ask a Cup of Sack or Ale:
Cry Westlin Herrings, or fresh Salmons,
White Sand, or Norway Nuts like Almonds.—
Delighted with their various Claver,
While Wealth made all his Wits to waver,
He cast his Look beneath the Board,
Where stood ane that spake ne'er a Word:
Pray, what art thou stands speechless there?—
Reply'd the Bird,—I think the mair.
The Buyer says, Thy Answer's wise,
And thee I'll have at any Price.—
What must you have?—Five Pounds.—'Tis thine
The Money, and the Bird is mine.—

Now in his Room this feather'd Sage
Is hung up in a gilded Cage,
The Master's Expectation's fully,
Possest to hear him tauk like Tully:

117

But a hale Month is past and gane,
He never hears a Rhime but ane;
Still in his Lugs he hears it rair,
The less I speak, I think the mair.
Confound ye for a silly Sot,
What a dull Idiot have I got!
As dull my sell, on short Acquaintance
To judge of ane by a single Sentence.

The Eclipse

Upon his guilded Chariot led by Hours,
With radiant Glories darting throw the Air,
The Sun, high sprung in his Diurnal Course,
Shed down a Day serenely sweet and fair.
The Earth mair beautiful and fertile grew;
The flowry Fields in rich Array,
Smil'd lovely on the beamy Day,
Delightful for the Eye to view;
Ceres, with her golden Hair,
Displaying Treasure ilka where,
While useful Plenty made her Stalks to bow.

A thousand little Suns glanc'd on the Wave;
Nature appear'd to claim the Sun's Respect,
All did sae blyth and beauteously behave.—
Ah! cry'd the Moon, too much for him ye deck:
My aking Een cannot this Glory bear.
This Sun pretends nane in the Sky
Can shine but him, then where am I?
Soon I the contrary shall clear:
By ae bauld Strake,
With him I'll make,
My equal Empire in the Heaven appear.

118

'Tis me that gives a Lustre to the Night;
Then should not I my proper Right display,
And now, even now dart down my Silver light?
I give enough, this Sun gives too much Day.
The Project fram'd,—Pale Cynthia now to shaw
Her shining Power, right daftly run
Directly 'tween the Earth and Sun.
Unwise Design! the Warld then saw
Instead of Light, the Moon
Brought Darkness in at Noon,
And without borrowing, had no Light at a'.

Thus many empty and imprudent Men,
Wha to their ain Infirmities are blind,
Rax yont their Reach, and this Way let us ken
A jealous, weak, and insufficient Mind.

ANE EPISTLE to A. R.

On the Poverty of the Poets

Dear Allan , with your Leave, allow me,
To ask you but one Question civil,
Why thou'rt a Poet, pray thee, shew me,
And not as poor as any Devil?

I own your Verses make me gay;
But as right Poet still I doubt ye,
For we hear tell benorth the Tay,
That nothing looks like want, about ye.

In Answer then, attempt Sollution,
Why Poverty torments your Gang?
And by what Fortitude and Caution
Thou guards thee from its meager Fang.

Yours, &c W. L.

119

ANSWER [To the foregoing Epistle]

SIR,

That mony a thriftless Poet's poor,
Is what they very well deserve,
'Cause aft their Muse turns common Whore,
And flatters Fools that let them starve.

Ne'er minding Business, they ly,
Indulging Sloth, in Garret-Couches,
And gape like Gorblins to the Sky
With hungry Wames and empty Poutches.

Dear Billies tak Advice for anes,
If ye'd hope Honour by the Muse,
Rather to Masons carry Stanes
Than for your Patrons Block-heads chuse.

For there's in Nature's secret Laws
Of Sympath and Antipathy,
Which is, and will be still the Cause
Why Fools and Wits can ne'er agree.

A wee Thing serves a chearfu' Mind,
That is dispos'd to be contented;
But he nae Happiness can find,
That is with Pride and Sloth tormented.

Still cautious to prevent a Dun,
With Caps and Horns on Bills and Bands;
The Sweets of Life I quietly cull,
And answer Nature's small Demands.

120

Lucky for me I never sang
Fause Praises to a worthless Wight,
And still took Pleasure in the Thrang
Of them wha in good Sense delight.

To such I owe what gave the Rise
To ought thou in my Verse esteems,
And Phoebe-like in darker Skies
I but reflect their brighter Beams.

To Mr ALLAN RAMSAY, upon his publishing his second Volume of POEMS

[_]

[By William Somerville, Author of The Chase]

Hail Caledonian Bard! whose rural Strains,
Delight the list'ning Hills, and chear the Plains.
Already polish'd by some Hand Divine,
Thy purer Oar, what Furnace can refine?
Careless of Censure, like the Sun shine forth,
In Native Lustre, and intrinsick Worth.
To Follow Nature is by Rules to write,
She led the Way and taught the Stagirite:
From her the Criticks Taste, the Poets fire,
Both drudge in vain 'till she from Heav'n inspire.
By the same Guide instructed how to soar,
Allan is now what Homer was before.

Ye chosen Youths wha dare like him aspire,
And touch with bolder Hand the golden Lyre,
Keep Nature still in view. On her Intent
Climb by her Aid, the dang'rous steep Ascent,
To lasting Fame. Perhaps a little Art
Is needful to plane o'er some rugged Part,
But the most labour'd Elegance and Care,
T'arrive at full Perfection must despair,

121

Alter, blot out, and write all o'er again,
Alas! some venial Sins will yet remain.
Indulgence is to Human Frailty due,
Ev'n POPE has Faults, and ADDISON a few,
But those, like Mists that cloud the Morning Ray
Are lost, and vanish in the Blaze of Day.
Tho' some intruding Pimple finds a Place
Amid the Glories of Clarinda's Face,
We still love on, with equal Zeal adore,
Nor think her less a Goddess than before.
Slight Wounds, in no disgraceful Scars shall end,
Heal'd by the Balm of some good-natur'd Friend.
In vain shall canker'd Zoilus assail,
While SPENCE presides, and Candor holds the Scale.
His Gen'rous Breast, nor Envy sow'rs, nor Spite,
Taught by his Founder's Motto how to write
Good Manners guides his Pen. Learn'd without Pride;
In dubious Points not forward to decide:
If here and there uncommon Beauties rise,
From Flow'r to Flow'r he roves with glad Surprize.
In Failings no malignant Pleasure takes,
Nor rudely triumphs over small Mistakes,
No Nauseous Praise, no biting Taunts offend,
W'expect a Censor, and we find a Friend.
Poets improv'd by his correcting Care,
Shall face their Foes with more undaunted Air,
Strip'd of their Rags shall like Ulysses shine,
With more Heroick Port, and grace divine.
No Pomp of Learning, and no Fund of Sense,
Can e'er Attone for lost Benevolence.
May WICHAM's Sons, who in each Art excel,
And rival ancient Bards in Writing well,
While from their bright Examples taught they sing,
And emulate their Flights with bolder Wing,

122

From their own Frailties learn the humbler Part,
Mildly to judge in Gentleness of Heart.

Such Criticks ( Ramsay ) jealous for our Fame,
Will not with Malice insolently blame,
But lur'd by Praise the hagard Muse reclaim.
Retouch each Line, till all is just and neat,
A whole of proper Parts, a Work almost compleat.

So when some beauteous Dame, a Reigning Toast,
The Flow'r of Forth, and proud Edina's Boast,
Stands at her Toilet in her Tartan Plaid,
And all her richest Head-gear, trimly clad,
The curious Handmaid with observant Eye,
Corrects the swelling Hoop that hangs awry,
Thro' ev'ry Plait her busy Fingers rove,
And now she plys below, and then above,
With pleasing Tatle, entertains the Fair,
Each Ribbon smooths, adjusts each rambling Hair,
Till the gay Nymph in her full Lustre shine;
And HOMER's JUNO was not half so fine.

Mr Spence, Poetry Professor in Oxford, and Fellow of New College.

William of Wicham, Founder of New College in Oxford, and of Winchester Coll. His motto is Manners maketh Man.

Vid. Hom. Od. L. 24th.

Vid. Hom. Il. L. 14.

To William Somervile, of Warwick-shire Esq

Again, like the Return of Day,
From Avon's Banks, the chearing Lay
Warms up a Muse was well nigh lost,
In Depths of Snow and chilling Frost;
But generous Praise the Soul inspires,
More than rich Wines, and blazing Fires.

Tho' on the Grampians I were chain'd,
And all the Winter on me rain'd.
Altho' half starv'd, my Sp'rit would spring
Up to new Life to hear you sing.

123

I take even Criticism kind,
That sparkles from so clear a Mind.
Friends ought and may point out a Spot,
But Enemies make all a Blot.
Friends sip the Honey from the Flower;
All's Verjuice to the Waspish Sour.

With more of Nature than of Art,
From stated Rules I often start,
Rules never studied yet by me.
My Muse is British, bold and free,
And loves at large to frisk and bound
Unman'cled o'er Poetick Ground.

I love the Garden wild and wide,
Where Oaks have Plumb-Trees by their Side;
Where Woodbines and the twisting Vine,
Clip round the Pear-Tree and the Pine;
Where mixt Jonckeels and Gowans grow,
And Roses midst rank Clover blow,
Upon a Bank of a clear Strand,
Its Wimplings led by Nature's Hand;
Tho' Docks and Bramble here and there,
May sometimes cheat the Gardner's Care,
Yet this to me's a Paradise,
Compar'd with prime cut Plots and nice,
Where Nature has to Art resign'd,
Till all looks mean, stiff, and confin'd.

May still my Notes of rustick Turn,
Gain more of your Respect than Scorn,
I'll hug my Fate, and tell sour Fools
I'm more oblig'd to Heaven, than Schools.
Heaven Homer taught.—The Critick draws
Only from him, and such their Laws;
The native Bards first plunge the Deep,
Before the Artfull dare to leap.
I've seen myself right many a Time,
Copy'd in Diction, Mode and Rhime.

124

Now, Sir, again let me express
My Wishing Thoughts in fond Address,
That for your Health, and Love you bear
To two of my Chief Patrons here,
You'd when the Lav'rocks rouze the Day,
When Beams and Dews make blythsome May,
When blooming Fragrance glads our Isle,
And Hills with Purple Heather smile,
Drop fancy'd Ails, with Courage stout,
Ward off the Spleen, the Stone and Gout.
May ne'er such Foes disturb your Nights,
Or elbow out your Day Delights.—
Here you will meet the jovial Train,
Whose Clangors eccho o'er the Plain,
While Hounds with Gowls both loud and clear,
Well tun'd delight the Hunter's Ear,
As they on Coursers fleet as Wind,
Pursue the Fox, Hart, Hare or Hind.
Delightful Game, where friendly Ties
Are closer drawn, and Health the Prize.

We long for, and we wish you here,
Where Friends are kind, and Claret clear.
The lovely Hope of Som'ril's Race,
Who smiles with a Seraphick Grace;
And the fair Sisters of the Boy
Will have, and add much to your Joy.

Give Warning to your noble Friend:
Your humble Servant shall attend,
A willing Sancho and your Slave,
With the best Humour that I have,
To meet you on that River's Shore,
That Britons, now, divides no more.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

Lord and Lady Somervile.