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

My Lord, my Patron, good and kind,
Whose every Act of generous Care
The Patriot shews, and trusty Friend;
While Favours by your Thoughts refin'd,
Both Publick and the Private share.
To you the Muse her duteous Homage pays,
While Edinburgh's Interest animates her Lays.

Nor will the Best some Hints refuse:
The narrow Soul, that least brings forth,
To an Advice the rarest bows;
Which the extensive Mind allows,
Being conscious of its genuine Worth,
Fears no Eclipse; nor with dark Pride declines,
A Ray from Light, that far inferior shines.

Our Reason and Advantage call
Us to preserve what we esteem;
And each should contribute, tho' small,
Like Silver Rivulets that fall
In one, and make a spreading Stream.
So should a City all her Care unite,
T'engage with Entertainments of Delight.

162

Man for Society was made,
His Search of Knowledge has no Bound;
Through the vast Deep he loves to wade,
But Subjects ebb, and Spirits fade,
On Wilds and thinly peopl'd Ground.
Then where the World, in Minature, employs
Its various Arts, the Soul its Wish enjoys.

Sometimes the social Mind may rove,
And trace, with Contemplation high,
The natural Beauties of the Grove,
Pleas'd with the Turtle's making Love,
While Birds chant in a Summer Sky.
But when cold Winter snows the naked Fields,
The City then its changing Pleasure yields.

Then you, to whom pertains the Care,
And have the Power to act aright,
Nor Pains, nor prudent Judging spare,
The Good Town's Failings to repair,
And give her Lovers more Delight.
Much you have done, both useful and polite;
O never tire! till every Plan's complete.

Some may object, We Money want,
Of every Project Soul and Nerve.
'Tis true;—but sure, the Parliament
Will ne'er refuse frankly to grant
Such Funds as good Designs deserve.
The thriving well of each of Britain's Towns,
Adds to her Wealth, and more her Grandeur crowns.

Allow that fifteen thousand Pounds
Were yearly on Improvements spent;
If Luxury produce the Funds,
And well laid out, there are no Grounds
For murmuring, or the least Complaint:
Materials all within our native Coast,
The Poor's employ'd, we gain, and nothing's lost.

163

Two hundreds, for five Pounds a day,
Will work like Turkish Galey Slaves;
And, e'er they sleep, they will repay
Back all the Publick forth did lay,
For small Support that Nature craves.
Thus kept at Work, few Twangs of Guilt they feel,
And are not tempt' by pinching Want to steal.

Most wisely did our City move,
When HOPE, who judges well and nice,
Was chosen fittest to improve,
From rushy Tufts the pleasing Grove,
From Bogs a rising Paradise.
Since Earth's Foundation, to our present Day,
The beauteous Plain in Mud neglected lay.

Now, evenly planted, hedg'd and drain'd,
Its Verdures please the Scent and Sight;
And here the Fair may walk unpain'd,
Her flowing Silks and Shoes unstain'd,
Round the green Circus of Delight:
Which shall by ripening Time still sweeter grow,
And HOPE be fam'd while Scotsmen draw the Bow.

Ah! while I sing, the Northern Air,
Throu' Gore and Carnage gives Offence;
Which should not, while a River fair,
Without our Walls flows by so near;
Carriage from thence but small Expence:
The useful Corporation too would find,
By working there, more Health, and Ease of Mind.

Then sweet our Northern Flowers would blow,
And sweet our Northern Alleys end:
Sweet all the Northern Springs would flow,
Sweet No(r)thern Trees and Herbs would grow,
And from the Lake a Field be gain'd:
Where on the Springs green Margent by the Dawn,
Our Maids might wash, and blanch their Lace and Lawn.

164

Forbid a nasty Pack to place
On Stalls unclean their Herbs and Roots,
On the High-street a vile Disgrace,
And tempting to our Infant-race,
To swallow Poison with their Fruits.
Give them a Station, where less spoil'd and seen,
The healthful Herbage may keep fresh and clean.

Besides, they straiten much our Street,
When those who drive the Hack and Dray,
In drunk and rude Confusion meet,
We know not where to turn our Feet;
Mortal our Hazard every Way.
Too oft the Ag'd, the Deaf and little Fry,
Hem'd in with Stalls, crush'd under Axles ly.

Clean Order yields a vast Delight,
And Genius's that brightest shine,
Prefer the Pleasure of the Sight
Justly, to theirs who Day and Night
Sink Health and active Thought in Wine.
Happy the Man that's clean in House and Weed,
Tho' Water be his Drink, and Oats his Bread.

Kind Fate, on them whom I admire
Bestow neat Rooms and Gardens fair,
Pictures that speak the Painter's Fire,
And Learning which the Nine inspire,
With Friends that all his Thoughts may share;
A House in Edinburgh, when the sullen Storm
Defaces Nature's joyous fragrant Form.

165

O! may we hope to see a Stage,
Fill'd with the best of such as can
Smile down the Follies of the Age,
Correct dull Pride and Party-rage,
And cultivate the growing Man;
And shew the Virgin every proper Grace,
That makes her Mind as comely as her Face.

Nor will the most devout oppose,
When with a strict judicious Care,
The Scenes most vertuous shall be chose,
That numerous are, forbidding those
That shock the Modest, Good and Fair.
The best of things may often be abus'd;
That argues not, when right, to be refus'd.

Thus, what our Fathers wasting Blood,
Of old from the South Britons won,
When Scotland reach'd to Humber's Flood,
We shall regain by Arts less rude,
And bring the Best and Fairest down,
From England's Northern Counties, nigh as far
Distant from Court, as we of Pictland are.

Thus far inspir'd with honest Zeal,
These Thoughts are offer'd with Submission,
By your own Bard, who ne'er shall fail
The Interest of the Common-weal;
While you indulge and grant Permission
To your oblig'd, thus humbly to rehearse
His honest and well-meaning Thoughts in Verse.

Mr. Hope of Rankeilour, who has beautifully planted, hedged and drained Straiton's Meadow, which was formerly the Bottom of a Lake.

With the more Freedom some Thoughts in these Stanza's are advanced, because several Citizens of the best thinking, both in and out of the Magistracy, incline to, and have such Views, if they were not oppos'd by some of gross old fashion'd Notions. Such will tell you, O! the Street of Edinburgh is the finest Garden of Scotland. And how can it otherwise be, considering how well 'tis dung'd every Night? But this Abuse we hope to see reform'd soon, when the Cart and Warning Bell shall leave the lazy Slatern without Excuse, after Ten at Night.