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

Hail Northern Bard! thou Fav'rite of the Nine,
Bright, or as Horace did, or Virgil shine.
In ev'ry Part of what thou'st done we find
How they, and great Apollo too, have joyn'd
To furnish thee with an uncommon Skill,
And with Poetick Fire thy Bosom fill.

Thy Morning Interview throughout is fraught
With tuneful Numbers and Majestick Thought:
And Celia, who her Lover's Suit disdain'd,
Is by all-powerful Gold at length obtain'd.

When Winter's hoary Aspect makes the Plains
Unpleasant to the Nymphs, and jovial Swains;
Sweetly thou do'st thy rural Couples call
To Pleasures known within Edina's Wall.

When, Allan, thou, for Reasons thou know'st best,
Doom'd busy Cowper to eternal Rest:
What Mortal could thine El'gy on him read,
And not have sworn he was defunct indeed?

xxii

Yet, that he might not lose accustom'd Dues,
You rous'd him from the Grave to open Pews;
Such Magick, worthy Allan, hath thy Muse.

Th' experienc'd Bawd, in aptest Strains thou'st made
Early instruct her Pupils in their Trade;
Lest when their Faces wrinkled are with Age,
They should not Cullies as when young engage.
But on our Sex why art thou so severe,
To wish for Pleasure we may pay so dear:
Suppose that thou had'st after cheerful Juice,
Met with a strolling Harlot wondrous spruce,
And been by her prevail'd with to resort
Where Claret might be drunk, or, if not, Port;
Suppose, I say, that this thou granted had,
And Freedom took with the enticing Jade;
Would'st thou not hope some Artist might be found
To cure, if ought you ail'd the smarting Wound?

When of the Caledonian Garb you sing,
(Which from Tartana's distant Clime you bring,)
With how much Force you recommend the Plaid,
To ev'ry jolly Swain, and lovely Maid.
But if, as Fame reports, some of those Wights,
Who canton'd are among the rugged Heights
No Breeks put on, should'st thou not them advise,
(Excuse me, Ramsay, if I am too nice)
To take, as fitting 'tis, some speedy Care
That what should hidden be appears not bare;
Lest Damsels, yet unknowing, should by Chance,
Their nimble Ogle t'wards the Object glance?
If this thou dost, we, who the South Possess,
May teach our Females how they ought to dress;
But chiefly let them understand, 'tis meet
They should their Legs hide more, if not their Feet,
Too much by Help of Whale-bone now display'd,
Ev'n from the Dutches to the Kitchen-maid;
But with more Reason, those who give Distaste,
When on their uncouth Limbs our Eyes we cast.

xxiii

Thy other Sonnets in each Stanza shew,
What, when of Love you think, thy Muse can do.
So movingly thou'st made the am'rous Swain,
Wish on the Moor his Lass to meet again,
That I, methinks, find an unusual Pain.
Nor hast thou, chearful Bard, exprest less Skill,
When the brisk Lass you sang of Peattie's-mill,
Or Sussie, whom the Lad with yellow Hair
Thou'st made in soft and pleasing Notes prefer
To Nymphs less handsome, constant, gay and fair.

In lovely Strains kind Nancy you address,
And make fond Willie his coy Jean possess:
Which done, thou'st blest the Lad in Nellie's Arms,
Who long had absent been 'midst dire Alarms.
And artfully you've plac'd within the Grove,
Jammie to hear his Mistress own her Love.

A gentle Care you've found for Strephon's Breast,
By scornful Betty long depriv'd of Rest.
And when the blisful Pairs you thus have crown'd,
You'd have the Glass go merrily arround
To shake off Care, and render Sleep more sound.

Who e'er shall see, or hath already seen,
Those bonny Lines call'd Christ's-kirk on the Green,
Must own that thou hast, to thy lasting Praise,
Deserv'd as well as Royal James the Bays.
'Mong other Things you've painted to the Life,
A Sot unactive lying by his Wife,
Which oft 'twixt wedded Folks makes wofull Strife.

When 'gainst the scribling Knaves your Pen you drew,
How didst thou lash the vile presumptuous Crew!
Not much fam'd Butler, who had gone before,
E'er ridicul'd his Knight, or Ralpho more;
So well thou's done it, equal Smart they feel,
As if thou'd pierc'd their Hearts with killing Steel.

xxiv

They thus subdu'd, you in pathetick Rhyme,
A Subject undertook that's more sublime,
By noble Thoughts, and Words discreetly join'd,
Thou'st taught me how I may Contentment find.
And when to Addie's Fame you touch'd the Lyre,
Thou sang'st like one of the Seraphick Choir.
So smoothly flow thy nat'ral rural Strains,
So sweetly too, you've made the mournful Swains
His Death lament, what mortal can forbear,
Shedding like us upon his Tomb a Tear.

Go on, fam'd Bard, thou Wonder of our Days,
And crown thy Head with never-fading Bays.
While grateful Britons do thy Lines revere,
And value, as they ought, their Virgil here.

J. Burchet.

xxv

TO THE AUTHOR.

As once I view'd a rural Scene,
With Summer's Sweets profusely wild;
Such Pleasure sooth'd my giddy Sense,
I ravish'd stood, while Nature smil'd.

Straight I resolv'd and chose a Field,
Where all the Spring I might transfer;
There stood the Trees in equal Rows,
Here Flora's Pride in one Parterre.

The Task was done, the Sweets were fled,
Each Plant had lost its sprightly Air,
As if they grudg'd to be confin'd,
Or to their Will not matched were.

The narrow Scene displeas'd my Mind,
Which daily still more homely grew:
At length I fled the loathed Sight,
And hy'd me to the Fields anew.

Here Nature wanton'd in her Prime;
My Fancy rang'd the boundless Waste.
Each different Sight pleas'd with Surprise,
I welcom'd back the Pleasures past.

xxvi

Thus some who feel Apollo's Rage,
Would teach their Muse her Dress and Time,
Till hamper'd so with Rules of Art,
They smother quite the vital Flame.

They daily chime the same dull Tone,
Their Muse no daring Sallies grace,
But stifly held with Bit and Curb,
Keeps heavy Trot, tho equal Pace.

But who takes Nature for his Rule,
Shall by her gen'rous Bounty shine;
His easy Muse revells at Will,
And strikes new Wonders every Line.

Keep then, my Friend, your native Guide,
Never distrust her plenteous Store,
Ne'er less propitious will she prove
Than now; but, if she can, still more.

C. T.

xxvii

TO Mr. ALLAN RAMSAY.

Too blindly partial to my native Tongue,
Fond of the Smoothness of our English Song;
At first thy Numbers did uncouth appear,
And shock'd th'affected Niceness of the Ear.
Thro' Prejudice's Eye each Page I see;
Tho all were Beauties, none were so to me.
Yet sham'd at last, whilst all thy Genius own,
To have that Genius hid from me alone;
Resolv'd to find, for Praise or Censure, cause,
Whether to join with all, or all oppose;
Careful I read thee o'er and o'er again:
At length the useful Search requites my Pain;
My false Distaste to instant Pleasure's turn'd,
As much I envy as before I scorn'd:
And thus the Error of my Pride to clear,
I sign my honest Recantation here.

C. Beckingham.

xxviii

TO Mr. ALLAN RAMSAY ON THE Publication of his Poems.

Dear Allan, who that hears your Strains,
Can grudge that you should wear the Bays,
When 'tis so long since Scotia's Plains
Could boast of such melodious Lays?

What tho the Criticks, snarling Curs!
Cry out, Your Pegasus wants Reins;
Bid them provide themselves of Spurs;
Such Riders need not fear their Brains.

A Muse that's healthy, fair and sound,
With noble Ardor fearless hastes
O'er Hill and Dale; but Carpet-Ground
Was ay for tender footed Beasts.

E'en let the fustian Coxcombs chuse
Their Carpet-Ground; but the green Field
Was held a Walk for Virgil's Muse,
And Virgil was an unco' Chield!

xxix

Your Muse, upon her native Stock
Subsisting, raises thence a Name;
While they are forc'd to pick the Lock
Of other Bards, and pilfer Fame.

Oft when I read your joyous Lines,
So full of pleasant Jests and Wit,
So blyth and gay the Humor shines,
It gives me many a merry Fit.

Then when I hear of Maggy's Charms,
And Roger tholing sair Disdain,
The bonny Lass my Bosom warms,
And mickle I bemoan the Swain.

For who can hear the Lad complain,
And not participate and feel
His artless undissembled Pain,
Unless he has a Heart of Steel.

But Patie's Wiles and cunning Arts
Appease th'imaginary Grief,
Declare him well a Clown of Parts,
And bring the wretched Wight Relief.

More might be said; but in a Friend
Encomiums seem but dull and flat,
The Wise approve, but Fools commend,
A Pope's Authority for that.

Else certes 'twere in me unmeet,
To grudge the Muse's utmost Force,
Or spare in such a Cause my Feet,
To clinch at least in Praise of yours.

Ja. Arbuckle.