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?

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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.

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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.

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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.