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

Hail, Cato! lovely youth, how didst thou shine
With graces borrow'd from the Roman line!
Thou set the godlike father up to view,
Pointing the virtues Britons should pursue.
The rising Cato made our hearts to glow
With generous pleasure and condoling wo.
When firm he stood, how venerably great,
Beneath his sufferings, and resign'd to fate!
Like an old oak that glories in his height,
Midst storms and tempests standing still upright.
What bosom swell'd not with a sacred joy,
To see great Portius in the tender Boy?
The true resemblance of his glorious sire,
Possess'd of virtues which all men admire:
His speech, his action, every thing confess'd,
The hero's sould lodged in the stripling's breast.
Marcius conspicuous shone, throughout the whole,
With Roman virtues and a Roman soul.
How well did Syphax act the treacherous part!
A Syphax in appearance, not in heart.
Lucius, mid'st civil broils calm and serene;
Unchanged, though fortune pleased to change the scene;
Which gives us hopes our Lucius, when of age,
Will act his part in life, as on the stage.
No sooner Lucia lent her friendly aid,
Than all resistless were her captives made;
Teaching the fair to listen to desert,
And banish fops and coxcombs from the heart.
How Marcia charm'd, when beautifully grieved,
By Lybian robes stain'd o'er with blood deceived!
Her secret passion now no more conceals,
Throws off restraint, and owns the flame she feels.

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The little Decius, too, deserves our praise,
Wh' address'd the senate with becoming grace;
The just applauses of the audience won.
Express'd by claps on claps from every one.
Ye British youth! advance to mighty deeds,
Storing your tender mind with all the seeds
Of solid virtue, which will brave your fate,
And, tho, depress'd, will ever make you great.

The Thimble

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

“In tenui labour: at tenuis non gloria.” —Virg.

What god shall I invoke to raise my song?
What goddess I of the celestial throng?
Shall bright Apollo lend to me his aid?
Shall chaste Lucina bring my muse to bed?
Oh! rather, greatest beauty of the sky!
I write for Lydia; hear your vot'ry's cry,
You gave your charms to her—What can you then deny?

All o'er this globe, where Phoebus darts his rays,
What strange variety accosts our eyes!
We see how nations variously incline,
How different studies favour different men;
Some love to chase the fox throughout the day,
Others to dance the winter night away,
Unlike to these, some love the trumpet's sound,
And cries of men, when gasping on the ground;
To some, of fancy warm it gives delight,
Instructed by the muses, verse to write
Of bards, some generals in fight rehearse,
Others with groves and fountains crowd their verse.
Greater than their's has fallen to my share—
A theme sublimer far demands my care,
I sing the thimble—armour of the fair.

Hail! heaven-invented-engine! gift divine!
You keep the tend'rest fingers free from pain.
Sing, lofty Muse, from whence the Thimble sprung—
The Thimble—safeguard of the fair and young.

In ancient times, ere mortals learnt the trade,
Bright Venus for herself her mantles made.
As busied once, in Cyprian grove she sat,
Her turtles fondly sleeping at her feet,

280

With hands alone to sew the goddess tried,
Her wand'ring thoughts were otherwise employed;
When,—lo! her needle—strange effect of spite—
Wounded that skin it could not see so bright;
She starts,—she raves,—she trembles with the smart;
The point that pricked her skin, went to her heart.
Sharp pain would not allow her long to stop;
“My doves,” she cry'd, “haste to Olympus' top”
The tim'rous beauty gets into her car,
Her pinioned bearers swiftly cut the air.
As quick as thought, they reach'd the sacred ground,
Where mighty Jove with Juno sat enthron'd.
“What ails my child?” to her then cried the god;
“Why thus in tears? What makes you look so odd?
Would you a favour beg?”—A while she stood,
Her ivory finger stain'd with purple blood;
Then thus:—“Oh! father of the gods,” she prayed,
“Grant I may be invulnerable made!”
With look sedate, returned the awful sire—
“Daughter, you do not know what you desire;
Would you to Pluto's gloomy regions run?
Would you be dipt in Styx, like Thetis 'son?
Could you unfrighted view Hell's dismal shore?
What shall I say then?—Go, and stitch no more.”

Ashamed—unsatisfied—away she hies
To try her fate again, beneath the skies.
“Shall I,” she said, “While goddesses well drest,
Outshine each other at a birthday feast—
Shall I in simple nakedness be brought,
Or clothed in rags? Intolerable thought!
No, rather may the blood my cheeks forsake,
And a new passage thro' my fingers take!”

In fertile Sicily, well known to fame,
A mountain stands, and Ætna is its name.—
Tremendous earthquakes rend the flinty rock,
And vomit forth continual fire and smoke:
Here, Vulcan forges thunderbolts for Jove,
Here, frame sharp arrows for the God of Love;
His Cyclops with their hammers strike around,
The hollow caverns echo back the sound.

Here, Venus brought her pigeons and her coach,
The one-eyed workman ceased at her approach;
When Vulcan thus:—“My charmer! why so pale?
You seem prepared to tell some dismal tale.
Does fierce Tydides still his rage pursue?
Or has your son his arrows tried on you?”

281

“Ah! no!”—“What makes you bleed then? answer quick.”
“Oh no, my lord, my husband! Know a prick
Of needle's point has made me wond'rous sick.”
“Fear not, my spouse!” said Vulcan, “ne'er again,
Never shall any needle give you pain.”
With that the charming goddess he embraced,
Then in a shell of brass her finger cased.
“This little engine shall in future days”
Continued he, “receive the poet's praise,
And give a fruitful subject for their lays;
This shall the lovely Lydia's finger grace—
Lydia—the fairest of the human race!”
He spoke—then, with a smile, the Queen of Love
Returned him thanks, and back to Cyprus drove.

When Venus, Lydia, with beauty blest,
She granted her the thimble with the rest;
Yet cannot brass or steel remain for aye—
All earthly things are subject to decay.
Of Babel's tow'r, so lofty and so proud,
No stone remains to tell us where it stood:
The great, the wise, the valiant and the just,
Caesar and Cato, are returned to dust;
Devouring Time to all destruction brings,
Alike the fate of Thimbles—and of Kings.
Then grieve not, Lydia! cease your anxious care,
Nor murmur lest your favorite Thimble wear.
All other thimbles shall wear out e'er long,
All other thimbles, be they e'er so strong,
Whilst your's shall live for ever in my song.

On the foregoing by ---

Fair Lydia's Thimble, Ramsay! to thy name,
Shall be a passport thro' the gates of Fame.

To the Memory of Alexr Strachan sometime School master in Pennycuik who died aged 80 years 1733.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Beneath this stone old Strachan's laid
whose Looks made Belzebub affraid
he quick as lightning fled before him
lest with his Taz he had come o'er him

In Pennycuik strict was his rule
where long he kept his awful school
where with these Taz & canker'd looks
he gart young Scholars tent their Books

282

when he appeared in Blood-red Gown
Then trembled all the Bairns in Town

Soon as he reached the Stygian lake
even rugged Charon 'gan to quake
his wonted freight he asked not
but freely put him in his Boat
he had no will to run the Risque
of getting with the Taz a whisk
thus Sanders he got safely in
without a scart upon his skin

And soon as Cerberus saw the Carle
He hid his heads and durst not snarl
nor from him usual loaf he Beggs
but fled with's Tail between his Leggs
Hells monsters all before him fled
and soon he gain'd the Elesian shade

Howere these things the Poets feign
let Strachan's Bones in rest remain
His Scholar keen to recompence
his master's Care & Diligence
Erects this Tomb that so his name
May flurish with a lasting fame

Hardyknute,

A Fragment.

I

Stately stept he East the Wa,
And stately stept he West,
Full Seventy Zeirs he now had sene,
With skerss sevin Zeirs of Rest.
He livit quhen Britons Breach of Faith
Wroucht Scotland meikle Wae:
And ay his Sword tauld to their Cost,
He was their deidly Fae.

283

II

Hie on a Hill his Castle stude,
With Halls and Touris a Hicht,
And guidly Chambers fair to se,
Quhair he lodgit mony a Knicht.
His Dame sae peirless anes and fair,
For Chast and Bewtie deimt,
Nae Marrow had in all the Land,
Saif Elenor the Quene.

III

Full Thirtein Sons to him scho bare,
All Men of Valour stout;
In bluidy Ficht with Sword in Hand
Nyne lost their Lives bot doubt;
Four zit remain, lang may they live
To stand by Liege and Land:
Hie was their Fame, hie was their Micht,
And hie was their Command.

IV

Great Luve they bare to Fairly fair,
Their Sister saft and deir,
Her Girdle shawd her Middle gimp,
And gowden glist her Hair.
Quhat waefou wae hir Bewtie bred?
Waefou to zung and auld,
Waefou I trow to Kyth and Kin,
As Story ever tauld.

V

The King of Norse in Summer Tyde,
Puft up with Powir and Micht,
Landed in fair Scotland the Yle,
With mony a hardy Knicht:
The Tydings to our gude Scots King
Came, as he sat at Dyne,
With noble Chiefs in braif Aray,
Drinking the Blude-reid Wyne.

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VI

“To Horse, to Horse, my Ryal Liege,
“Zour Faes stand on the Strand,
“Full Twenty thousand glittering Spears
“The King of Norse commands.
Bring me my Steed Mage dapple gray,
Our gude King raise and cryd,
A trustier Beast in all the Land
A Scots King nevir seyd.

VII

GO, little Page, tell Hardyknute,
That lives on Hill so hie,
To draw his Sword, the Dreid of Faes,
And haste and follow me.
The little Page flew swift as Dart
Flung by his Masters Arm,
Cum down, cum down, Lord Hardyknute,
And rid zour King frae Harm.

VIII

Then reid, reid grew his dark-brown Cheiks,
Sae did his dark-brown Brow;
His Luiks grew kene, as they were wont,
In Dangers great to do;
He hes tane a Horn as grene as Glass,
And gien five Sounds sae shrill,
That Treis in grene Wod schuke thereat,
Sae loud rang ilka Hill.

IX

His Sons in manly Sport and Glie,
Had past that Summers Morn,
Quhen lo down in a grassy Dale,
They heard their Fatheris Horn.
That Horn, quod they, neir sounds in Peace,
We haif other Sport to byde;
And sune they heyd them up the Hill,
And sune were at his Syde.

285

X

LATE late Zestrene I weind in Peace
To end my lengthned Lyfe,
My Age micht weil excuse my Arm
Frae manly Feats of Stryfe;
But now that Norse dois proudly boast
Fair Scotland to inthrall,
Its neir be said of Hardyknute,
He feard to ficht or fall.

XI

ROBIN of Rothsay bend thy Bow,
Thy Arrows schute sae leil,
Mony a comely Countenance
They haif turnd to deidly Pale:
Brade Thomas tak ze but zour Lance,
Ze neid nae Weapons mair,
Gif ze ficht weit as ze did anes
Gainst Westmorlands ferss Heir.

XII

MALCOLM, licht of Fute as Stag
That runs in Forest wyld,
Get me my Thousands Thrie of Men
Well bred to Sword and Schield:
Bring me my Horse and Harnisine,
My Blade of Mettal cleir.
If Faes kend but the Hand it bare,
They sune had fled for Feir.

XIII

FAREWEIL my Dame sae peirless gude,
And tuke hir by the Hand,
Fairer to me in Age zou seim,
Than Maids for Bewtie famd:
My zoungest Son sall here remain
To guard these stately Towirs,
And shut the Silver Bolt that keips,
Sae fast zour painted Bowirs.

286

XIV

And first scho wet hir comely Cheiks,
And then hir Boddice grene,
Hir Silken Cords of Twirtle twist,
Weil plett with Silver schene;
And Apron set with mony a Dice
Of Neidle-wark sae rare,
Wove by nae Hand, as ze may guess,
Saif that of Fairly fair.

XV

And he has ridden owre Muir and Moss,
Owre Hills and mony a Glen,
Quhen he came to a wounded Knicht
Making a heavy Mane;
Here maun I lye, here maun I dye,
By Treacheries false Gyles;
Witless I was that eir gaif Faith
To wicked Womans Smyles.

XVI

SR Knicht, gin ze were in my Bowir,
To lean on Silken Seat,
My Ladyis kyndlie Care zoud prove,
Quha neir kend deidly Hate;
Hir self wald watch ze all the Day,
Hir Maids a deid of Nicht;
And Fairly fair zour Heart wald cheir,
As scho stands in zour Sicht.

XVII

ARYSE, zoung Knicht, and mount zour Steid,
Full lowns the schynand Day,
Cheis frae my Menzie quhom ze pleis
To leid ze on the Way.
With smyless Luke and Visage wan,
The wounded Knicht replyd,
Kynd Chiftain, zour Intent pursue,
For heir I maun abyde.

287

XVIII

To me nae after Day nor Nicht,
Can eir be sweit or fair,
But sune beneath sum draping Trie,
Cauld Deith sall end my Care.
With him nae Pleiding micht prevail,
Braif Hardyknute to gain,
With fairest Words and Reason strang,
Straif courteously in vain.

XIX

Syne he has gane far hynd attowre,
Lord Chattans Land sae wyde,
That Lord a worthy Wicht was ay,
Quhen Faes his Courage jeyd:
Of Pictish Race by Mothers Syde,
Quhen Picts ruld Caledon,
Lord Chattan claimd the Princely Maid,
Quhen he saift Pictish Crown.

XX

Now with his ferss and stalwart Train,
He reicht a rysing Heicht,
Quhair braid encampit on the Dale,
Norss Army lay in Sicht;
Zonder my valziant Sons and feris,
Our raging Revers wait,
On the unconquerit Scottish Swaird
To try with us thair Fate.

XXI

MAK Orisons to him that saift
Our Sauls upon the Rude,
Syne braifly schaw zour Veins ar filld
With Caledonian Blude.
Then furth he drew his trusty Glaive,
Quhyle Thousands all arround,
Drawn frae their Sheaths glanst in the Sun,
And loud the Bougills sound.

288

XXII

To join his King adoun the Hill
In Hast his Merch he made,
Quhyle, playand Pibrochs, Minstralls meit
Afore him stately strade.
Thryse welcum valziant Stoup of Weir,
Thy Nations Scheild and Pryde;
Thy King nae Reason has to feir
Quhen thou art be his Syde.

XXIII

Quhen Bows were bent and Darts were thrawn,
For thrang scarce could they flie,
The Darts clove Arrows as they met,
The Arrows dart the Trie.
Lang did they rage and ficht full ferss,
With little Skaith to Man,
But bludy, bludy was the Field,
Or that lang Day was done.

XXIV

The King of Scots that sindle bruikd
The War that luikt lyke Play,
Drew his braid Sword, and brake his Bow,
Sen Bows seimt but Delay:
Quoth noble Rothsay, Myne I'll keip,
I wate its bleid a Skore.
Hast up my merry Men, cryd the King,
As he rade on before.

XXV

The King of Norse he socht to find,
With him to mense the Faucht,
But on his Forehead there did licht
A sharp unsonsie Shaft;
As he his Hand put up to find
The Wound, an Arrow kene,
O waefou Chance! there pinnd his Hand
In midst betwene his Ene.

289

XXVI

REVENGE, revenge, cryd Rothsays Heir,
Your Mail-coat sall nocht byde
The Strength and Sharpness of my Dart;
Then sent it throuch his Syde:
Another Arrow weil he markd,
It persit his Neck in twa,
His Hands then quat the silver Reins,
He law as Eard did fa.

XXVII

SAIR bleids my Liege, sair, sair he bleids.
Again with micht he drew
And Gesture dreid his sturdy Bow,
Fast the braid Arrow flew:
Wae to the Knicht he ettled at,
Lament now Quene Elgreid,
Hie Dames to wail zour Darlings Fall,
His Zouth and comely Meid.

XXVIII

TAKE aff, take aff his costly Jupe
(Of Gold weil was it twynd,
Knit lyke the Fowlers Net throuch quhilk
His steilly Harness shynd)
Take, Norse, that Gift frae me, and bid
Him venge the Blude it beirs;
Say, if he face my bended Bow,
He sure nae Weapon feirs.

XXIX

Proud Norse with Giant Body tall,
Braid Shoulder and Arms strong,
Cryd, Quhair, is Hardyknute sae famd
And feird at Britains Throne:
Tho Britons tremble at his Name,
I sune sall make him wail,
That eir my Sword was made sae sharp,
Sae saft his Coat of Mail.

290

XXX

That Brag his stout Heart coud na byde,
It lent him zouthfou Micht:
I'm Hardyknute this Day, he cryd,
To Scotlands King I hecht,
To lay thee law as Horses Hufe,
My Word I mean to keip.
Syne with the first Strake eir he strake,
He garrd his Body bleid.

XXXI

NORSE ene lyke gray Gosehawks staird wyld,
He sicht with Shame and Spyte;
Disgracd is now my far famd Arm,
That left thee Power to stryke:
Then gaif his Head a Blaw fae fell,
It made him doun to stoup,
As law as he to Ladies usit
In courtly Gyse to lout.

XXXII

Full sune he rais'd his bent Body,
His Bow he marvelld fair,
Sen Blaws till then on him but darrd
As Touch of Fairly fair:
Norse ferliet too as fair as he
To se his stately Luke,
Sae sune as eir he strake a Fae,
Sae sune his Lyfe he tuke.

XXXIII

Quhair lyke a Fyre to Hether fet,
Bauld Thomas did advance,
A sturdy Fae with Luke enragd
Up towards him did prance;
He spurd his Steid throw thickest Ranks
The hardy Zouth to quell
Quha stude unmufit at his Approach
His Furie to repell.

291

XXXIV

THAT schort brown Shaft sae meanly trimd,
Lukis lyke poor Scotlands Geir,
But dreidfull seims the rusty Poynt!
And loud he leuch in Jeir.
Aft Britains Blude has dimd its Shyne
This Poynt cut short their Vaunt;
Syne piercd the boisteris bairded Cheik,
Nae Tyme he tuke to taunt.

XXXV

Schort quhyle he in his Sadill swang,
His Stirrip was nae Stay,
Sae feible hang his unbent Knee,
Sure taken he was fey:
Swith on the hardened Clay he fell,
Richt far was hard the Thud,
But Thomas luikt not as he lay
All waltering in his Blude.

XXXVI

With cairles Gesture Mynd unmuvit
On raid he north the Plain,
His feim in Thrang of fiercest Stryfe,
Quhen Winner ay the fame;
Nor zit his Heart Dames dimpelit Cheik,
Coud meife saft Luve to bruik,
Till vengeful Ann returnd his Scorn,
Then languid grew his Luke.

XXXVII

In Thrawis of Death, with wallowit Cheik
All panting on the Plain,
The fainting Corps of Warriours lay,
Neir to aryse again;
Neir to return to native Land,
Nae mair with blythsom Sounds,
To boist the Glories of the Day,
And schaw thair Shyning Wounds.

292

XXXVIII

On Norways Coast the Widowit Dame
May wash the Rocks with Teirs,
May lang luke owre the Schiples Seis
Befoir hir Mate appeirs.
Ceife, Emma, ceife to hope in Vain,
Thy Lord lyis in the Clay,
The valziant Scots nae Revers thole
To carry Lyfe away.

XXXIX

There on a Lie quhair stands a Cross
Set up for Monument,
Thousands full fierce that Summers Day
Filld kene Waris black Intent,
Lets Scots, quhyle Scots, praife Hardyknute,
Let Norse the Name ay dreid,
Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird,
Sal latest Ages reid.

XL

Loud and chill blew the westlin Wind,
Sair beat the heavy Showir,
Mirk grew the Nicht eir Hardyknute
Wan neir his stately Tower,
His Towir that usd with Torches bleise
To shyne sae far at Nicht,
Seimd now as black as mourning Weid,
Nae Marvel sair he sichd.

XLI

THAIRS nae Licht in my Ladys Bowir
Thairs nae Licht in my Hall;
Nae Blink shynes round my Fairly fair,
Nor Ward stands on my Wall.
Quhat bodes it? Robert, Thomas say,
Nae Answer fits their Dreid.
Stand back, my Sons, I'll be zour Gyde,
But by they past with Speid.

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XLII

AS fast I haif sped owre Scotlands Faes,
There ceist his Brag of Weir,
Sair schamit to mynd ocht but his Dame,
And Maiden Fairly fair.
Black Feir he felt, but quhat to feir
He wist not zit with Dreid;
Sair schuke his Body, sair his Limbs,
And all the Warrior fled.