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

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.