The Scottish Works of Alexander Ross ... Consisting of Helenore, or The Fortunate Shepherdess; Songs; The Fortunate Shepherd, or The Orphan: Edited, with notes, glossary and life by Margaret Wattie |
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INVOCATION. |
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| II. |
| III. |
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 | The Scottish Works of Alexander Ross |  |
INVOCATION.
Say, Scota, Thou that anes upon a day
Gar'd Allan Ramsay's hungry hart strings play
The merriest sangs that ever yet were sung,
Pity anes mair, for I'm out-throw as clung.
'Twas that grim gossip, chandler-chafted want,
With threed-bair claithing, and an ambry scant,
Made him cry o' thee to blaw throw his pen
Wi' leed that well might help him to come ben,
An' crack amo' the best of ilka sex,
An' shape his houghs to gentle bows and becks.
He wan thy heart, well wordy o't, poor man.
Take yet another gangrell by the hand;
As gryt's my mister, an' my duds as bair,
And I as sib as he was, ilka hair.
Mak me but half as canny, there's no fear,
Tho' I be auld, but I'll yet gather gear.
O gin thou hadst not heard him first o'er well,
When he got maughts to write The Shepherd's Tale,
I meith ha had some chance of landing fair,
But O that sang, the mither of my care!
What wad I geen, that thou hadst put thy thumb
Upo' the well tauld tale, till I had come,
Then led my hand alongst it line for line!
O to my dieing day, how I wad shine,
An' as far yont it as syn Habbi plaid,
Or Ga'in on Virgil matchless skill display'd!
An' mair I wadna wiss. But Ramsay bears
The gree himsel, an' the green laurels wears.
Well mat he brook them, for piece ye had spar'd
The task to me, Pate meith na been a laird.
'Tis may be better, I's tak what ye gee:
Ye're nae toom-handed gin your heart be free;
But I's be willing as ye bid me write—
Blind horse, they say, ride hardy to the fight,
And by good hap may come awa' but scorn:
They are na kempers a' that shear the corn.
Then Scota heard, and said: “Your rough-spun ware
Sounds but right douff an' fowsome to my ear.
Do ye pretend to write like my ain bairn,
Or onie ane that wins beyont the Kairn?
Ye're far mistaen gin ye think sick a thought.
The Gentle Shepherd's nae sae easy wrought;
There's scenes an' acts, there's drift an' there's design,
An' a' maun like a new-ground whittle shine;
Sick wimpl'd wark would crack a pow like thine.”
“Kind mistris,” says I, “gin this be your fear,
Charge nae mair shot than what the piece 'll bear.
Something but scenes or acts, that kittle game,
Yet what may please, bid me sit down an' frame.”
“Gae then,” she says, “nor deave me with your dinn;
Puff—I inspire you, sae you may begin.
If ye, o'er forthersome, turn tapsie turvy,
Blame your ain haste, an' say not that I spur ye;
But sound and seelfu', as I bid you, write,
An' ready hae your pen when I indite.
Speak my ain leed, 'tis gueed auld Scots I mean;
Your Southren gnaps I count not worth a preen.
We've words a fouth, that we can ca' our ain,
Tho' frae them now my childer sair refrain,
An' are to my gueed auld proverb confeerin—
Neither gueed fish nor flesh, nor yet sa't herrin.
Gin this ye do, an' lyn your rime wi' sense,
But ye'll make friends of fremmet fouk, fa kens?
Wi' thir injunctions ye may set you down.”
“Mistris,” says I, “I'm at your bidding boun.”
Gar'd Allan Ramsay's hungry hart strings play
The merriest sangs that ever yet were sung,
Pity anes mair, for I'm out-throw as clung.
'Twas that grim gossip, chandler-chafted want,
With threed-bair claithing, and an ambry scant,
Made him cry o' thee to blaw throw his pen
Wi' leed that well might help him to come ben,
An' crack amo' the best of ilka sex,
An' shape his houghs to gentle bows and becks.
He wan thy heart, well wordy o't, poor man.
Take yet another gangrell by the hand;
As gryt's my mister, an' my duds as bair,
And I as sib as he was, ilka hair.
Mak me but half as canny, there's no fear,
Tho' I be auld, but I'll yet gather gear.
10
When he got maughts to write The Shepherd's Tale,
I meith ha had some chance of landing fair,
But O that sang, the mither of my care!
What wad I geen, that thou hadst put thy thumb
Upo' the well tauld tale, till I had come,
Then led my hand alongst it line for line!
O to my dieing day, how I wad shine,
An' as far yont it as syn Habbi plaid,
Or Ga'in on Virgil matchless skill display'd!
An' mair I wadna wiss. But Ramsay bears
The gree himsel, an' the green laurels wears.
Well mat he brook them, for piece ye had spar'd
The task to me, Pate meith na been a laird.
'Tis may be better, I's tak what ye gee:
Ye're nae toom-handed gin your heart be free;
But I's be willing as ye bid me write—
Blind horse, they say, ride hardy to the fight,
And by good hap may come awa' but scorn:
They are na kempers a' that shear the corn.
Then Scota heard, and said: “Your rough-spun ware
Sounds but right douff an' fowsome to my ear.
Do ye pretend to write like my ain bairn,
Or onie ane that wins beyont the Kairn?
Ye're far mistaen gin ye think sick a thought.
The Gentle Shepherd's nae sae easy wrought;
There's scenes an' acts, there's drift an' there's design,
An' a' maun like a new-ground whittle shine;
Sick wimpl'd wark would crack a pow like thine.”
“Kind mistris,” says I, “gin this be your fear,
Charge nae mair shot than what the piece 'll bear.
Something but scenes or acts, that kittle game,
Yet what may please, bid me sit down an' frame.”
11
Puff—I inspire you, sae you may begin.
If ye, o'er forthersome, turn tapsie turvy,
Blame your ain haste, an' say not that I spur ye;
But sound and seelfu', as I bid you, write,
An' ready hae your pen when I indite.
Speak my ain leed, 'tis gueed auld Scots I mean;
Your Southren gnaps I count not worth a preen.
We've words a fouth, that we can ca' our ain,
Tho' frae them now my childer sair refrain,
An' are to my gueed auld proverb confeerin—
Neither gueed fish nor flesh, nor yet sa't herrin.
Gin this ye do, an' lyn your rime wi' sense,
But ye'll make friends of fremmet fouk, fa kens?
Wi' thir injunctions ye may set you down.”
“Mistris,” says I, “I'm at your bidding boun.”
Sae I begins, my pen into my hand,
Just ready hearkning as she should command.
But then about her there was sic a dinn,
Some seeking this, some that, some out, some in,
That it's nae wonder, tho' I aft gae wrang,
An' for my ain set down my neiper's sang;
For hundreds mair were learning at her school,
And some wrote fair, an' some like me wrote foul.
Just ready hearkning as she should command.
But then about her there was sic a dinn,
Some seeking this, some that, some out, some in,
That it's nae wonder, tho' I aft gae wrang,
An' for my ain set down my neiper's sang;
For hundreds mair were learning at her school,
And some wrote fair, an' some like me wrote foul.
| The Scottish Works of Alexander Ross | |