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

Ye Caledonian Beauties, who have long
Been both the Muse, and Subject of my Song,
Assist your Bard, who in harmonious Lays
Designs the Glory of your Plaid to raise:
How my fond Breast with blazing Ardour glows,
When e'er my Song on you just Praise bestows.

Phœbus, and his imaginary Nine,
With me have lost the Title of Divine;
To no such Shadows will I Homage pay,
These to my real Muses shall give Way:
My Muses, who on Smooth meand'ring Tweed,
Stray through the Groves, or grace the Clover Mead;
Or these who bath themselves where haughty Clyde
Does roaring o'er his lofty Cat'racts ride;
Or you who on the Banks of gentle Tay
Drain from the Flowers the early Dews of May,
To varnish on your Cheek the Crimson Dy,
Or make the White the falling Snow outvy:
And you who on Edina's Streets display
Millions of matchless Beauties every Day;
Inspir'd by you, what Poet can desire
To warm his Genius at a brighter Fire?

I sing the Plaid, and sing with all my Skill,
Mount then O Fancy, Standard to my Will;
Be strong each Thought, run soft each happy Line,
That Gracefulness and Harmony may shine,
Adapted to the beautiful Design.
Great is the Subject, vast th'exalted Theme,
And shall stand fair in endless Rolls of Fame.

The Plaid's Antiquity comes first in View,
Precedence to Antiquity is due:
Antiquity contains a certain Spell,
To make ev'n Things of little Worth excell;
To smallest Subjects gives a glaring Dash,
Protecting high born Idiots from the Lash:
Much more 'tis valu'd, when with Merit plac'd,
It graces Merit, and by Merit's grac'd.

O first of Garbs! Garment of happy Fate!
So long employ'd of such an antique Date;
Look back some Thousand Years, till Records fail,
And lose themselves in some Romantick Tale,
We'll find our Godlike Fathers nobly scorn'd
To be with any other Dress adorn'd;
Before base foreign Fashions interwove,
Which 'gainst their Int'rest and their Brav'ry strove.
'Twas they could boast their Freedom with proud Rome,
And arm'd in Steel despise the Senate's Doom;
Whil'st o'er the Globe their Eagle they display'd,
And conquer'd Nations prostrate Homage paid,
They only, they unconquer'd stood their Ground,
And to the mighty Empire fixt the Bound.
Our native Prince who then supply'd the Throne,
In Plaid array'd magnificently shone:
Nor seem'd his Purple, or his Ermine less,
Tho cover'd by the Caledonian Dress.
In this at Court the Thanes were gayly clad,
With this the Shepherds and the Hinds were glad,

In this the Warrior wrapt his brawny Arms,
With this our beauteous Mothers vail'd their Charms;
When ev'ry Youth, and every lovely Maid
Deem'd it a Deshabille to want their Plaid.

O Heav'ns! How chang'd? How little look their Race?
When foreign Chains with foreign Modes take Place;
When East and Western-Indies must combine
To deck the Fop, and make the Gewgaw shine.
Thus while the Grecian Troops in Persia lay,
And learn'd the Habit to be soft and gay,
By Luxury enerv'd, they lost the Day.

I ask'd Varell, what Soldiers he thought best?
And thus he answer'd to my plain Request;
“Were I to lead Battalions out to War,
“And hop'd to triumph in the Victor's Car,
“To gain the loud Applause of worthy Fame,
“And Columns rais'd to eternize my Name,
“I'd choose, had I my Choice, that hardy Race
“Who fearless can look Terrors in the Face;
“Who midst the Snows the best of Limbs can fold
“In Tartan Plaids, and smile at chilling Cold:
“No useless Trash should pain my Soldier's Back,
“Nor Canvass Tents make loaden Axles crack;
“No rattling Silks I'd to my Standards bind,
“But bright Tartana's waving in the Wind:
“The Plaid alone should all my Ensigns be,
“This Army from such Banners would not flie.
“These, these were they, who naked taught the Way
“To fight with Art, and boldly gain the Day.
Ev'n great Gustavus stood himself amaz'd,
While at their wond'rous Skill and Force he gaz'd.
With such brave Troops one might o'er Europe run,
Make out what Richlieu fram'd, and Lewis had begun.

Degenerate Men! Now Ladies please to sit,
That I the Plaid in all its Airs may hit,
With all the Powers of Softness mixt with Wit.

While scorching Titan tawns the Shepherd's Brow,
And whistling Hinds sweat lagging at the Plow:
The piercing Beams Brucina can defy,
Not Sun-burnt she's, nor dazl'd is her Eye.
Ugly's the Mask, the Fan's a trifling Toy
To still at Church some Girl or restless Boy.
Fixt to one Spot's the Pine and Myrtle Shades,
But on each Motion wait th'Umbrellian Plaids,
Repelling Dust when Winds disturb the Air,
And give a Check to every ill bred Stare.

Light as the Pinions of the airy Fry,
Of Larks and Linnets who traverse the Sky,
Is the Tartana spun so very fine,
Its Weight can never make the Fair repine,
By raising Ferments in her glowing Blood,
Which cannot be escap'd within the Hood:
Nor does it move beyond its proper Sphere,
But let's the Gown in all its Shapes appear;
Nor is the Straightness of her Waist deny'd
To be by every ravisht Eye survey'd.
For this the Hoop may stand at largest Bend,
It comes not nigh, nor can its Weight offend.

The Hood and Mantle make the tender faint;
I'm pain'd to see them moving like a Tent.
By Heather Jenny in her Blanket drest,
The Hood and Mantle fully are exprest;
Which round her Neck with Rags is firmly bound,
While Heather Besoms loud she screams around.
Was Goody Strode so great a Pattern, say?
Are ye to follow when such lead the way?
But know each Fair who shall this Sur-tout use,
You're no more Scots, and cease to be my Muse.

The smoothest Labours of the Persian Loom
Lin'd in the Plaid, set off the Beauty's Bloom;
Faint is the Gloss, nor come the Colours nigh,
Tho white as Milk, or dipt in Scarlet Dy.

The Lily pluckt by fair Pringella grieves,
Whose whiter Hand outshines its snowy Leaves:
No wonder then white Silks in our Esteem,
Match'd with her fairer Face, they sully'd seem.

If shining Red Campbella's Cheeks adorn,
Our Fancies straight conceive the blushing Morn;
Beneath whose Dawn the Sun of Beauty lies,
Nor need we Light but from Campbella's Eyes.

If lin'd with Green Stuarta's Plaid we view,
Or thine Ramseia edg'd around with Blue;
One shews the Spring when Nature is most kind,
The other Heav'n, whose Spangles lift the Mind.

A Garden Plot enrich'd with chosen Flowers,
In Sun Beams basking after vernal Showers,
Where lovely Pinks in sweet Confusion rise,
And Amaranths and Eglintines surprise;
Hedg'd round with fragrant Brier and Jessamine,
The rosie Thorn and variegated Green;
These give not half that Pleasure to the View,
As when, Fergusia, Mortals gaze on you:
You raise our Wonder, and our Love engage,
Which makes us curse, and yet admire the Hedge;
The Silk and Tartan Hedge, which does conspire
With you to kindle Love's soft spreading Fire.
How many Charms can every fair one boast!
How oft's our Fancy in the Plenty lost!
These more remote, these we admire the most.
What's too familiar often we despise,
But Rarity makes still the Value rise.

If Sol himself shou'd shine through all the Day,
We cloy, and lose the Pleasure of his Ray:
But if behind some marly Cloud he steal,
Nor for sometime his radiant Head reveal,
With brighter Charms his Absence he repays,
And every Sun Beam seems a double Blaze.

So when the Fair their dazling Lustres shroud,
And disappoint us with a Tartan Cloud,
How fondly do we peep with wishful Eye,
Transported when one lovely Charm we spy?
Oft to our Cost, ah me! we often find
The Power of Love strikes deep, tho he be blind;
Perch'd on a Lip, a Cheek, a Chin, or Smile,
Hits with Surprise, and throws young Hearts in Jail.

From when the Cock proclaims the rising Day,
And Milk-maids sing around sweet Curds and Whey;
Till gray-ey'd Twilight, Harbinger of Night,
Pursues o'er Silver Mountains sinking Light,
I can unwearied from my Casements view
The Plaid, with something still about it new.
How are we pleas'd, when with a handsome Air
We see Hepburna walk with easy Care?
One Arm half circles round her slender Waist,
The other like an Ivory Pillar plac'd,
To hold her Plaid around her modest Face,
Which saves her Blushes with the gayest Grace:
If in white Kids her taper Fingers move,
Or unconfin'd jet thro' the sable Glove.

With what a pretty Action Keitha holds
Her Plaid, and varies oft its airy Folds;
How does that naked Space the Spirits move,
Between the rufl'd Lawn and envious Glove?
We by the Sample, tho no more be seen,
Imagine all that's fair within the Skreen.

Thus Belles in Plaids vail and display their Charms,
The Love-sick Youth thus bright Humea warms,
And with her graceful Meen her Rivals all alarms.

The Plaid itself gives Pleasure to the Sight,
To see how all its Setts imbibe the Light;

Forming some Way, which even to me lies hid,
White, Black, Blew, Yellow, Purple, Green and Red.
Let Newton's Royal Club through Prisms stare,
To view Celestial Dyes with curious Care,
I'll please my self, nor shall my Sight ask Aid
Of Cristal Gimcracks to survey the Plaid.

How decent is the Plaid when in the Pew,
It hides th'inchanting Fair from Ogler's View.
The Mind's oft crowded with ill tim'd Desires,
When Nymphs unvail'd approach the sacred Quires.
Even Senators who guard the Common-weal,
Their Minds may rove;—Are Mortals made of Steel?
The finisht Beaux stand up in all their Airs,
And search out Beauties more than mind their Prayers.
The wainscot Forty Six's are perplext
To be eclips'd, Spite makes them drop the Text.
The younger gaze at each fine Thing they see;
The Orator himself is scarcely free.
Ye then who wou'd your Piety express,
To sacred Domes ne'er come in naked Dress.
The Power of Modesty shall still prevail;
Then Scotian Virgins use your native Vail.

Thus far young Cosmel read; then star'd and curst,
And askt me very gravely how I durst
Advance such Praises for a Thing despis'd?
He smiling, swore I had been ill advis'd.

To you, said I, perhaps this may seem true,
And Numbers vast, nor Fools may side with you:
As many shall my Sentiments approve;
Tell me what's not the Butt of Scorn and Love?
Were Mankind all agreed to think one Way,
What wou'd Divines and Poets have to say?
No Ensigns wou'd on Martial Fields be spread,
And Corpus Juris never wou'd be read:

We'd need no Councils, Parliaments, nor Kings,
Ev'n Wit and Learning wou'd turn silly Things.
You miss my Meaning still, I'm much afraid,
I would not have them always wear the Plaid.

Old Salem's Royal Sage, of Wits the Prime,
Said, For each Thing there was a proper Time.
Night's but Aurora's Plaid, that ta'en away,
We lose the Pleasure of returning Day;
Ev'n through the Gloom, when view'd in sparkling Skies,
Orbs scarcely seen, yet gratify our Eyes:
So through Hamilla's op'ned Plaid, we may
Behold her heavenly Face, and heaving milky Way.
Spanish Reserve, join'd with a Gallick Air,
If manag'd well, becomes the Scotian Fair.

Now you say well, said he; But when's the Time
That they may drop the Plaid without a Crime?

Then I,

Lest, O fair Nymphs, ye should our Patience tire,
And starch Reserve extinguish gen'rous Fire;
Since Heaven your soft victorious Charms design'd
To form a Smoothness on the rougher Mind:
When from the bold and noble Toils of War,
The rural Cares, or Labours of the Bar;
From these hard Studies which are learn'd and grave,
And some from dang'rous Riding o'er the Wave:
The Caledonian manly Youth resort
To their Edina, Love's great Mart and Port,
And crowd her Theatres with all that Grace
Which is peculiar to the Scotian Race;
At Consort, Ball, or some Fair's Marriage-Day,
O then with Freedom all that's sweet display.
When Beauty's to be judged without a Vail,
And not its Powers met out as by Retail,
But Wholesale, all at once, to fill the Mind
With Sentiments gay, soft, and frankly kind;

Throw by the Plaid, and like the Lamp of Day,
When there's no Cloud to intercept his Ray.
So shine Maxella, nor their Censure fear,
Who, Slaves to Vapours, dare not so appear.

On Ida's Height, when to the Royal Swain,
To know who should the Prize of Beauty gain,
Jove sent his two fair Daughters and his Wife,
That he might be the Judge to end the Strife:
Hermes was Guide, they found him by a Tree,
And thus they spake with Air divinely free,
Say, Paris, which is fairest of us three.
To Jove's high Queen, and the Celestial Maids,
E're he wou'd pass his Sentence, cry'd, No Plaids.
Quickly the Goddesses obey'd his Call,
In simple Nature's Dress he view'd them all,
Then to Cyth'rea gave the Golden Ball.

Great Criticks hail! our Dread, whose Love or Hate,
Can with a Frown, or Smile, give Verse its Fate;
Attend, while o'er this Field my Fancy roams,
I've somewhat more to say, and here it comes.

When Virtue was a Crime, in Tancred's Reign,
There was a noble Youth who wou'd not deign
To own for Sovereign one a Slave to Vice,
Or blot his Conscience at the highest Price;
For which his Death's devis'd with hellish Art,
To tear from his warm Breast his beating Heart.
Fame told the tragick News to all the Fair,
Whose num'rous Sighs and Groans bound through the Air:
All mourn his Fate, Tears trickle from each Eye,
Till his kind Sister threw the Woman by;
She in his Stead a gen'rous Off'ring staid,
And he, the Tyrant baulk'd, hid in her Plaid.
So when Æneas with Achilles strove,
The Goddess Mother hasted from above,
Well seen in Fate, prompt by maternal Love,

Wrapt him in Mist, and warded off the Blow
That was design'd him by his valiant Foe.

I of the Plaid could tell a hundred Tales,
Then hear another, since that Strain prevails.

The Tale no Records tell, it is so old,
It happned in the easy Age of Gold,
When am'rous Jove Chief of th'Olympian Gods,
Pall'd with Saturnia, came to our Abodes,
A Beauty-hunting; for in these soft Days,
Nor Gods, nor Men delighted in a Chace
That would destroy, not propagate their Race.
Beneath a Fir-Tree in Glentanar's Groves,
Where, e'er gay Fabricks rose, Swains sung their Loves,
Iris lay sleeping in the open Air,
A bright Tartana vail'd the lovely Fair;
The wounded God beheld her matchless Charms,
With earnest Eyes, and grasp'd her in his Arms.
Soon he made known to her, with gaining Skill,
His Dignity, and Import of his Will.
Speak thy Desire, the Divine Monarch said.
Make me a Goddess, cry'd the Scotian Maid,
Nor let hard Fate bereave me of my Plaid.
Be thon the Hand-maid to my mighty Queen,
Said Jove, and to the World be often seen
With the celestial Bow, and thus appear
Clad with these radiant Colours as thy Wear.

Now say my Muse, e're thou forsake the Field,
What Profit does the Plaid to Scotia yield,
Justly that claims our Love, Esteem and Boast,
Which is produc'd within our native Coast.
On our own Mountains grows the Golden Fleece,
Richer than that which Jason brought to Greece:
A beneficial Branch of Albion's Trade,
And the first Parent of the Tartan Plaid.

Our fair ingenious Ladies Hands prepare
The equal Threeds, and give the Dyes with Care:
Thousands of Artists sullen Hours decoy
On rattling Looms, and view their Webs with Joy.

May she be curst to starve in Frogland Fens,
To wear a Fala ragg'd at both the Ends,
Groan still beneath an antiquated Suit,
And die a Maid at fifty five to boot;
May she turn quaggy Fat, or crooked Dwarff,
Be ridicul'd while primm'd up in her Scarff;
May Spleen and Spite still keep her on the Fret,
And live till she outlive her Beauty's Date;
May all this fall, and more than I have said,
Upon that Wench who disregards the Plaid.

But with the Sun let ev'ry Joy arise,
And from soft Slumbers lift her happy Eyes;
May blooming Youth be fixt upon her Face,
Till she has seen her fourth descending Race;
Blest with a Mate with whom she can agree,
And never want the finest of Bohea:
May ne'er the Miser's Fears make her afraid,
Who joins with me, with me admires the Plaid.
Let bright Tartana's henceforth ever shine,
And Caledonian Goddesses enshrine.

Fair Judges to your Censure I submit,
If you allow this Poem to have Wit,
I'll look with Scorn upon these musty Fools,
Who only move by old worm-eaten Rules.
But with th'ingenious if my Labours take,
I wish them ten Times better for their Sake;
Who shall esteem this vain are in the wrong,
I'll prove the Moral is prodigious strong:
I hate to trifle, Men should act like Men,
And for their Country only draw their Sword and Pen.

Ochel Hills.

Homer.

A large Wood in the North of Scotland.

A little square Cloath wore by the Dutch Women.