Which carpet the poetic fields,
And lasting funds of pleasure yields;
Nae mair they'd gaunt and gove away,
Or sleep or loiter out the day,
Or waste the night, damning their sauls,
In deep debauch and bawdy brawls;
Whence pox and poverty proceed,
An early eild, and spirits dead.
Reverse of you, and him you love,
Whose brighter spirit tow'rs above
The mob of thoughtless lords and beaux,
Who in his ilka action shows
"True friendship, love, benevolence,
Unstudy'd wit and manly sense."
Allow here what you've said yoursell,
Nought can b' exprest so just and well.
To him and her, worthy his love,
And every blessing from above,
A son is given, God save the boy,
For theirs and every Som'ril's joy.
Ye wardens! round him take your place,
And raise him with each manly grace;
Make his meridian virtues shine,
To add fresh lustres to his line:
And many may the mother see
Of such a lovely progeny.
Now, Sir, when Boreas nae mair thuds Hail, snaw, and sleet, frae blacken'd clouds; While Caledonian hills are green,
And a' her straths delight the een;
While ilka flower with fragrance blows,
And a' the year its beauty shows;
Before again the winter lour,
What hinders then your northern tour?
Be sure of welcome; nor believe
These wha an ill report would give
To Ed'nburgh and the land of cakes,
That nought what's necessary lacks.
Here plenty's goddess frae her horn
Pours fish and cattle, claith and corn,
In blyth abundance; and yet mair,
Our men are brave, our ladies fair:
Nor will North Britain yield for fouth
Of ilka thing, and fellows couth,
To ony but her sister South.
True, rugged roads are cursed dreigh,
And speats aft roar frae mountains heigh;
The body tires, (poor tottering clay!)
And likes with ease at hame to stay;
While sauls stride warlds at ilka stend,
And can their widening views extend.
Mine sees you, while you cheerfu' roam
On sweet Avona's flow'ry howm,
There recollecting, with full view,
These follies which mankind pursue;
While, conscious of superior merit,
You rise with a correcting spirit,
And as an agent of the gods,
Lash them with sharp satyric rods:
Labour divine!-Next, for a change,
O'er hill and dale I see you range
After the fox or whidding hare,
Confirming health in purest air;
While joy frae heights and dales resounds,
Rais'd by the holla, horn and hounds:
Fatigu'd, yet pleas'd, the chace out run,
I see the friend, and setting sun,
Invite you to the temp'rate bicker,
Which makes the blood and wit flow quicker.
The clock strickes twelve, to rest you bound,
To save your health by sleeping sound.
Thus with cool head and healsome breast,
You see new day stream frae the east;
Then all the muses round you shine,
Inspiring ev'ry thought divine:
Be long their aid :-your years and blisses,
Your servant Allan Ramsay wishes.
AN EPISTLE FROM W. SOMERVILLE
TO ALLAN RAMSAY, ON PUBLISHING HIS SECOND VOLUME
HAIL! Caledonian bard! whose rural strains
Delight the list'ning hills, and cheer the plains;
Already polish'd by some hand divine,
Thy purer ore what furnace can refine?
Careless of censure, like the sun shine forth
In native lustre and intrinsic worth.
To follow nature is by rules to write,
She led the way and taught the Stagyrite:
From her the critic's taste, the poet's fire,
Both drudge in vain till she from heav'n inspire.
By the same guide instructed how to soar,
Allan is now what Homer was before.
Ye chosen youths wha dare like him aspire,
And touch with bolder hand the golden lyre,
Keep nature still in view; on her intent,
Climb by her aid the dang'rous steep ascent
To lasting fame.—Perhaps a little art
Is needful to plane o'er some rugged part;
But the most labour'd elegance and care
T'arrive at full perfection must despair;
Alter, blot out, and write all o'er again,
Alas! some venial sins will yet remain.
Indulgence is to human frailty due,
E'en Pope has faults, and Addison a few;
But those, like mists that cloud the morning ray,
Are lost and vanish in the blaze of day.
Tho' some intruding pimple find a place
Amid the glories of Clarinda's face,
We still love on, with equal zeal adore,
Nor think her less a goddess than before.
Slight wounds in no disgraceful scars shall end,
Heal'd by the balm of some good-natur'd friend.
In vain shall canker'd Zoilus assail,
While Spence (1) presides, and Candour holds the scale:
His gen'rous breast nor envy sours, nor spite;
Taught by his founder's motto (2) how to write,
Good manners guides his pen; learn'd without pride;
In dubious points not forward to decide:
If here and there uncommon beauties rise,
From flow'r to flow'r he roves with glad surprise :
In failings no malignant pleasure takes,
Nor rudely triumphs over small mistakes;
No nauseous praise, no biting taunts offend,
W'expect a censor, and we find a friend.
Poets improv'd by his correcting care,
Shall face their foes with more undaunted air,
Stripp'd of their rags, shall like Ulysses shine, (3)
With more heroic port and grace
(1) Mr. Spence, poetry professor in Oxford, and fellow of New College. (2) William of Wickham, founder of New College in Oxford, and of Winchester College. His motto is, "Manners maketh man."
(3) Vide Hom. Od. lib. xxiv.
No pomp of learning, and no fund of sense,
Can e'er atone for lost benevolence.
May Wickham's sons, who in each art excel,
And rival ancient bards in writing well,
While from their bright examples taught, they sing,
And emulate their flights with bolder wing,
From their own frailties learn the humbler part,
Mildly to judge in gentleness of heart.
Such critics, Ramsay, jealous for our fame,
Will not with malice insolently blame,
But lur'd by praise, the haggard muse reclaim.
Retouch each line till all is just and neat,
A whole of proper parts, a work almost complete.
So when some beauteous dame, a reigning toast, The flow'r of Forth, and proud Edina's boast, Stands at her toilet in her tartan plaid, And all her richest head-gear trimly clad; The curious handmaid, with observant eye, Corrects the swelling hoop that hangs awry; Thro' ev'ry plait her busy fingers rove, And now she plys below, and then above; With pleasing tattle entertains the fair, Each ribbon smooths, adjusts each rambling hair, Till the gay nymph in her full lustre shine,
And Homer's Juno was not half so fine. (1)
RAMSAY'S ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.
AGAIN, like the return of day,
From Avon's banks the cheering lay
(1) Vide Hom. II. lib. xiv.
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