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THE LAUREL DISPUTED;

OR, THE MERITS OF ALLAN RAMSAY AND ROBERT FERGUSSON CONTRASTED.

[_]

Delivered in the Pantheon, at Edinburgh, on Thursday, 14th April, 1791, on the Question—“Whether have the exertions of Allan Ramsay or Robert Fergusson done more honour to Scotch poetry?”

To Merit's brow this garland gives the Muse,
For who to Merit would a wreath deny?
Tho' base Neglect the due deserts refuse,
Fair Fame forbids the poet's name to die.
Before ye a' hae done, I'd humbly crave,
To speak twa words or three amang the lave;
No for mysel', but for an honest carl,
Wha's seen right mony changes i' the warl',
But is sae blate, down here he durstna come,
Lest, as he said, his fears might ding him dumb;
And then he's frail—sae begg'd me to repeat
His simple thoughts about this fell debate;
He gied me this lang scroll; 'tis e'en right brown;
I'se let you hear't as he has't set down.
18

Last owk, our Elpsa wi' some creels o' eggs,
And three fat eerocks fassent by the legs,
Gaed down to Embrugh; caft a new bane-kame,
An' brought a warl' o' news and clashes hame:
For she's scarce out a day, an' gets a text,
But I'm dung deaf wi' clatter a' the next;
She'll tell a' what she heard frae en' to en',
Her cracks to wives, wives cracks to her again;
Till wi' quo' I's, quo' she's, an' so's, her skirle
Sets my twa lugs a ringing like a gir'le.
'Mang ither ferlies whilk my kimmer saw,
Was your prent paper batter't on the wa';
She said she kentna rightly what it meant,
But saw some words o' goud an' poets in't!
This gart me glour; sae aff sets I my lane
To Daniel Reid's, an auld frien' o' my ain;
He gets the News, and tauld me that ye'd hecht
A dawd o' goud, on this same Fursday night,
To him wha'd show, in clinking verses drest,
Gin Ramsay's sangs or Fergusson's war best.
Trouth I was glad to hear ye war sae kind,
As keep our slee-tongu'd billies in your mind;
An' tho' our Elpsa ca'd me mony a gouk,
To think to speak amang sae mony fouk;
I gat my staff, pat on my bonnet braid,
An' best blue breeks, that war but fern-year made;
A saxpence too, to let me in bedeen,
An' thir auld spentacles to help my een;
Sae I'm come here, in houps ye'll a' agree,
To hear a frank auld kintra man like me.
In days whan Dryden sang ilk bonny morn,
An' Sandy Pope began to tune his horn;
Whan chiels round Lon'on chanted a' fu' thrang,
But poor auld Scotlan' sat without a sang;
19

Droll Will Dunbar, frae Flyting than was freed,
An' Douglas too, an' Kennedy were dead;
And nane were left, in hamely cracks to praise
Our ain sweet lasses, or our ain green braes;
Far aff our gentles for their poets flew,
An' scorn'd to own that Lallan sangs they knew;
Till Ramsay raise: O blythsome hearty days!
Whan Allan tun'd his chaunter on the braes!
Auld Reekie than, frae blackest, darkest wa's
To richest rooms resounded his applause;
An' whan the nights were dreary, lang an' dark,
The beasts a' fothert, an' the lads frae wark;
The lasses' wheels thrang birring round the ingle,
The ploughman, borin' wi' his brogs an' lingel,
The herd's wires clicking owr the ha'f-wrought hose,
The auld gudeman's een ha'flins like to close;
The “Gentle Shepherd” frae the bole was ta'en,—
Than sleep I trow was banished frae their een;

[then]


The crankiest than was kittled up to daffin',
An' sides and chafts maist riven war wi' laughin'.
Sic war the joys his cracks cou'd eith afford
To peer an' ploughman, barrowman, or lord;
In ilka clachan, wife, man, wean, an' callan,
Cracket an' sang frae morn to e'en o' Allan.
Learn'd fouk, that lang in colleges an' schools,
Hae sooket learning to the vera hools,
An' think that naething charms the heart sae weel's
Lang cracks o' gods, Greeks, Paradise, and deils;
Their pows are cram't sae fu' o' lear an' art,
Plain simple nature canna reach their heart;
But whare's the rustic that can, readin', see
Sweet Peggy skiffin' ow'r the dewy lee;
Or, wishfu' stealing up the sunny howe
To gaze on Pate, laid sleeping on the knowe;
20

Or hear how Bauldy ventur'd to the deil,
How thrawn auld carlines skelpit him afiel',
How Jude wi's hawk met Satan i' the moss,
How Skin-flint grain't his pocks o' goud to loss;
How bloody snouts an' bloody beards war gi'en
To smith's and clowns at “Christ's kirk on the Green;”
How twa daft herds, wi' little sense or havings,
Din'd by the road, on honest Hawkie's leavings;
How Hab maist brak the priest's back wi' a rung,
How deathless Addie died, an' how he sung;
Whae'er can thae (o' mae I needna speak)
Read tenty ow'r, at his ain ingle-cheek;
An' no fin' something glowan thro' his blood,
That gars his een glowr thro' a siller flood;
May close the beuk, poor coof! and lift his spoon;
His heart's as hard's the tackets in his shoon.
Lang saxty years ha'e whiten't ow'r this powe,
An' mony a height I've seen, an' mony a howe;
But aye whan Elspa flate, or things gaed wrang,
Next to my pipe was Allie's sleekit sang;
I thought him blyther ilka time I read,
An' mony a time, wi' unco glee I've said,
That ne'er in Scotland, wad a chiel appear,
Sae droll, sae hearty, sae confoundet queer,
Sae glibly-gabbet, or sae bauld again,—
I said, I swor't—but deed I was mistaen:
Up frae Auld Reekie Fergusson begoud,
In fell auld phrase that pleases aye the crowd,
To chear their hearts whiles wi' an antrin sang,
Whilk far an' near round a' the kintry rang.
At first I thought the swankie didna ill,
Again, I glowrt to hear him better still;
Bauld, slee and sweet, his lines mair glorious grew,
Glow'd round the heart, and glanc'd the soul out-thro;
21

But whan I saw the freaks o' Hallow Fair,
Brought a' to view as plain as I'd been there;
An' heard, wi' teeth 'maist chatterin i' my head,
Twa kirk-yard ghaists rais'd goustly frae the dead;
Dais'd Sandy greetan for his thriftless wife;
How camscheuch Samy sud been fed in Fife;
Poor Will an' Geordy mourning for their frien';
The Farmer's Ingle, an' the cracks at e'en;
My heart cry'd out, while tears war drappan fast,
O Ramsay, Ramsay, art thou beat at last?
Ae night,—the lift was skinklan a' wi' starns,—
I cross'd the burn an' dauner't thro' the cairns,
Down to auld Andrew Ralston's o' Craig-neuk,
To hear his thoughts, as he had seen the beuk:
(Andrew's a gay droll haun—ye'll aiblins ken him?—
It maksna, I had hecht some sangs to len' him,)
“Aweel,” quo' I, as soon's I reek't the hallan,
“What think ye now o' our bit Embrugh callan?”
“Saf's man,” quo' Andrew, “yon's an unco chiel!
He surely has some dealings wi' the deil!
There's no a turn that ony o' us can work at,
At hame, or yet a-fiel', at kirk or market;
But he describ'st as paukily an' fell,
As gin he'd been a kintra man himsel'.
Yestreen I'm sure, beside our auld gudewife,
I never leugh as meikle a' my life,
To read the King's Birth-day's fell hurry-burry,
How draigl't pussey flies about like fury;
Faith, I ken that's a fact.—The last birth-day,
As I stood glouring up an' down the way,
A dead cat's guts, before I cou'd suspect,
Harl't thro the dirt, cam clash about my neck;
An' while wi' baith my hauns, frae 'bout I tok it,
Wi' perfect stink, I thought I wad a bocket.
22

His stories, too, are tell't sae sleek an' baul',
Ilk oily word rins jinking thro' the saul;
What he describes, before your een ye see't,
As plain an' lively as ye see that peat.
It's my opinion, John, that this young fallow,
Excels them a', an' beats auld Allan hallow;
An' shows at twenty-twa, as great a giftie
For painting just, as Allan did at fifty.
You, Mr. President, ken weel yersel',
Better by far than kintra-fouks can tell,
That they wha reach the gleg, auld-farrant art,
In verse to melt, an' soothe, an' mend the heart;
To raise up joy, or rage, or courage keen,
And gar ilk passion sparkle in our een;
Sic chiels (whare'er they hae their ha' or hame),
Are true blue-bards, and wordy o' the name.
Sud ane o' thae, by lang experience, man
To spin out tales frae mony a pawky plan,
An' sets a' laughing at his blauds o' rhyme,
Wi' sangs aft polish'd by the haun o' Time;
And should some stripling, still mair light o' heart,
A livelier humour to his cracks impart;
Wi' careless pencil draw, yet gar us stare
To see our ain fire-sides and meadows there;
To see our thoughts, our hearts, our follies drawn,
And nature's sel' fresh starting frae his haun;
Wad mony words, or speeches lang, be needed
To tell whase rhymes war best, wha clearest-headed?
Sits there within the four wa's o' this house,
Ae chield o' taste, droll, reprobate, or douse;
Whase blessed lugs hae heard young Rob himsel',
(Light as the lamb that dances on the dell,)
Lay aff his auld Scots crack wi' pawky glee,
And seen the fire that darted frae his ee?
23

O let him speak! O let him try t'impart
The joys that than gush'd headlang on his heart,
Whan ilka line, and ilka lang-syne glowr,
Set faes an' friends and Pantheons in a roar!
Did e'er auld Scotland fin' a nobler pride
Through a' her veins, and glowan bosom glide,
Than when her Muses' dear young fav'rite bard,
Wi' her hale strength o' wit and fancy fir'd,
Raise frae the thrang, and kin'ling at the sound,
Spread mirth, conviction, truth and rapture round?
To set Rob's youth and inexperience by,—
His lines are sweeter, and his flights mair high;
Allan, I own, may show far mair o' art,
Rob pours at once his raptures on the heart;
The first, by labour mans our breast to move,
The last exalts to ecstasy and love;
In Allan's verse, sage sleeness we admire,
In Rob's, the glow of fancy and of fire,
And genius bauld, that nought but deep distress,
And base neglect, and want, could e'er suppress.
O hard, hard fate!—but cease, thou friendly tear,
I darna mourn my dear lo'ed Bardie here,
Else I might tell how his great soul had soar'd,
And nameless ages wonder'd and ador'd;
Had friends been kind, and had not his young breath
And rising glory, been eclipsed by Death.
But lest owre lang I lengthen out my crack,
An' Epps be wearying for my coming-back;
Let ane an' a' here, vote as they incline,
Frae heart and saul Rob Fergusson has mine.
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