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

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;

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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.