The works of Allan Ramsay edited by Burns Martin ... and John W. Oliver [... and Alexander M. Kinghorn ... and Alexander Law] |
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 | The works of Allan Ramsay |  |
AN EPISTLE To James Oswald
Dear Oswald, could my verse as sweetly flow,
As notes thou softly touchest with the bow,
While all the circling fair attentive hing,
On ilk vibration of thy trembling string,
I'd sing how thou wouldst melt our sauls away
By solemn notes, or chear us wi' the gay,
In verse as lasting as thy tunes shall be,
As soft as thy new polish'd Danton me.
As notes thou softly touchest with the bow,
While all the circling fair attentive hing,
On ilk vibration of thy trembling string,
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By solemn notes, or chear us wi' the gay,
In verse as lasting as thy tunes shall be,
As soft as thy new polish'd Danton me.
But wha can sing that feels wi' sae great pain
The loss for which Edina sighs in vain?
Our concert now nae mair the Ladies mind;
They've a' forgot the gait to Niddery's wynd.
Nae mair the Braes of Ballandine can charm,
Nae mair can Fortha's Bank our bosoms warm,
Nae mair the Northern Lass attention draw,
Nor Pinky-house gi' place to Alloa.
The loss for which Edina sighs in vain?
Our concert now nae mair the Ladies mind;
They've a' forgot the gait to Niddery's wynd.
Nae mair the Braes of Ballandine can charm,
Nae mair can Fortha's Bank our bosoms warm,
Nae mair the Northern Lass attention draw,
Nor Pinky-house gi' place to Alloa.
O JAMIE! when may we expect again
To hear from thee, the soft the melting strain,
And, what's the loveliest, think it hard to guess,
Miss St---t, or thy Lass of Inverness?
When shall we sigh at thy soft Cypress-grove,
So well adapted to the tale of love?
When wilt thou teach our soft Æidian fair,
To languish at a false Sicilian air;
Or when some tender tune compose again,
And cheat the town wi' David Rizo's name?
Alas! no more shall thy gay tunes delight,
No more thy notes sadness or joy excite,
No more thy solemn bass's awful sound,
Shall from the chapel's vaulted roof rebound.
London, alas! which aye has been our bane,
To which our very loss is certain gain,
Where our daft Lords and Lairds spend a' their rents,
In following ilka fashion she invents,
Which laws we like not aft on us entails,
And where we're forc'd to bring our last appeals,
Still envious of the little we had left,
Of JAMIE OSWALD last our town bereft.
'Tis hard indeed—but may you now repent
The day that to that spacious town you went.
If they thy value know as well as we,
Perhaps our vanish'd gold may flow to thee.
If so, be wise; and when ye're well to fend,
Return again and here your siller spend.
To hear from thee, the soft the melting strain,
And, what's the loveliest, think it hard to guess,
Miss St---t, or thy Lass of Inverness?
When shall we sigh at thy soft Cypress-grove,
So well adapted to the tale of love?
When wilt thou teach our soft Æidian fair,
To languish at a false Sicilian air;
Or when some tender tune compose again,
And cheat the town wi' David Rizo's name?
Alas! no more shall thy gay tunes delight,
No more thy notes sadness or joy excite,
No more thy solemn bass's awful sound,
Shall from the chapel's vaulted roof rebound.
London, alas! which aye has been our bane,
To which our very loss is certain gain,
Where our daft Lords and Lairds spend a' their rents,
In following ilka fashion she invents,
Which laws we like not aft on us entails,
And where we're forc'd to bring our last appeals,
Still envious of the little we had left,
Of JAMIE OSWALD last our town bereft.
'Tis hard indeed—but may you now repent
The day that to that spacious town you went.
If they thy value know as well as we,
Perhaps our vanish'd gold may flow to thee.
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Return again and here your siller spend.
Mean while, to keep our heavy hearts aboon,
O publish a' your works, and send them soon:
We'll a' subscribe, as we did for the past,
And play while bows may wag or strings can last.
O publish a' your works, and send them soon:
We'll a' subscribe, as we did for the past,
And play while bows may wag or strings can last.
Farewell—perhaps, if you oblige us soon,
I'll sing again to a new fav'rite tune.
I'll sing again to a new fav'rite tune.
| The works of Allan Ramsay | |