The works of Allan Ramsay edited by Burns Martin ... and John W. Oliver [... and Alexander M. Kinghorn ... and Alexander Law] |
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On the Royal Company of Scottish Archers.
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 | The works of Allan Ramsay |  |
On the Royal Company of Scottish Archers.
Now Phoebus on our Fields doth early smile,
And gloomy Night is banished our Isle
Far South, beyond the long Capharian Bay,
While ancient Thule enjoys a Month of Day,
And Cattle on her lofty Hills do play,
Till Mid-day Heat makes them to seek the Shade,
Down in cool Glens, where they luxurious feed;
And loyally drink down the Cristal Spring
The Lion's Health, and own him for their King.
Thrice happy Beasts! . . .
And gloomy Night is banished our Isle
Far South, beyond the long Capharian Bay,
While ancient Thule enjoys a Month of Day,
And Cattle on her lofty Hills do play,
Till Mid-day Heat makes them to seek the Shade,
Down in cool Glens, where they luxurious feed;
And loyally drink down the Cristal Spring
The Lion's Health, and own him for their King.
Thrice happy Beasts! . . .
The martial Genius of old Scotland moves
Now in the Breasts of those who Glory loves,
As in this Royal Squad of Youths, who dare,
If call'd, imploy their Bows In Peace or War.
If fierce Bellona sounds, they'll bend their Bows,
And send a Shower of Deaths amongst their Foes;
But in soft Peace, they then are Cupid's Care,
And with his Shafts they gently wound the Fair.
Sometimes to open Fields they do resort,
To gain Diversion by their manly Sport.
As the Olympian Games were first design'd
To animate and raise the human Mind;
So our chief Town a Silver Shaft bestows,
For which the Archers yearly bend their Bows;
Clade like those ancient Chiefs, who bravely stood
Their Country's Fence to their last drop of Blood.
An Habit which those Chieftains wore of old,
Braver than those now spangled o'er with Gold:
Still wore by them who are the purer Race
Of those great Souls, who were our Country's Grace.
Now in the Breasts of those who Glory loves,
As in this Royal Squad of Youths, who dare,
If call'd, imploy their Bows In Peace or War.
If fierce Bellona sounds, they'll bend their Bows,
And send a Shower of Deaths amongst their Foes;
But in soft Peace, they then are Cupid's Care,
And with his Shafts they gently wound the Fair.
Sometimes to open Fields they do resort,
To gain Diversion by their manly Sport.
As the Olympian Games were first design'd
To animate and raise the human Mind;
So our chief Town a Silver Shaft bestows,
For which the Archers yearly bend their Bows;
Clade like those ancient Chiefs, who bravely stood
Their Country's Fence to their last drop of Blood.
262
Braver than those now spangled o'er with Gold:
Still wore by them who are the purer Race
Of those great Souls, who were our Country's Grace.
The noble Weems, as Chieftain of the Band,
Adds to his Glory more, than to command
All great Britannia's Force by Sea or Land.
Eugene nor Marlb'ro ne'r led such a Train,
Thro' bloody Flanders to Ramillie's Plain.
Such were the Grecian Chiefs who did encamp
Before old Troy; not of the vulgar Stamp,
But Men of Worth, a great and valiant Throng,
Whose Minds were, like their Bodies, firm and strong.
Adds to his Glory more, than to command
All great Britannia's Force by Sea or Land.
Eugene nor Marlb'ro ne'r led such a Train,
Thro' bloody Flanders to Ramillie's Plain.
Such were the Grecian Chiefs who did encamp
Before old Troy; not of the vulgar Stamp,
But Men of Worth, a great and valiant Throng,
Whose Minds were, like their Bodies, firm and strong.
Your noble Nestor, ah! his Loss we mourn,
Who now lies dormant in his silent Urn,
Last Year upon your Head appear'd the Sage,
Fraught with good Humour still, in Spite of Age.
All Hearts were glad to see his Lordship gay,
At such an Age such Vigour to display.
Who now lies dormant in his silent Urn,
Last Year upon your Head appear'd the Sage,
Fraught with good Humour still, in Spite of Age.
All Hearts were glad to see his Lordship gay,
At such an Age such Vigour to display.
But where's Achilles? Will he ne'r be seen,
To head that merry Meeting on the Green?
Now proud old Priam with his haughty Son
Exulting fancies that the Field is won:
Their joyful Acclamations rend the Skies;
They swear by Jove, they'll keep the ravish'd Prize.
Return Achilles ere it be too late,
Clear up our Doubts, and stand the Shock of Fate.
Let nothing damp the Courage of the Brave:
In great Attempts, if just, the Gods will save.
Jove in the Air the Scales of Fate doth hang:
Thus spake Ulysses; thus old Homer sang.
Thus shall my Muse, though on a weaker Wing,
Fly to the End of Time, and ever sing
Their Praise, who love their Country and their King.
To head that merry Meeting on the Green?
Now proud old Priam with his haughty Son
Exulting fancies that the Field is won:
Their joyful Acclamations rend the Skies;
They swear by Jove, they'll keep the ravish'd Prize.
Return Achilles ere it be too late,
Clear up our Doubts, and stand the Shock of Fate.
Let nothing damp the Courage of the Brave:
In great Attempts, if just, the Gods will save.
Jove in the Air the Scales of Fate doth hang:
Thus spake Ulysses; thus old Homer sang.
Thus shall my Muse, though on a weaker Wing,
Fly to the End of Time, and ever sing
Their Praise, who love their Country and their King.
| The works of Allan Ramsay | |