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 headgear, trimly clad,
The curious handmaid, with observant eye,
Corrects the swelling hoop that stands 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.*
RAMSAY'S ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.
AGAIN, like the return of day,
From Avon's banks the cheering lay
Warms up a muse was well-nigh lost
In depths of snow and chilling frost ;
But, generous praise the soul inspires
More than rich wines and blazing fires.
* Vide Hom. Il., lib. xiv.
Tho' on the Grampians I were chain'd,
And all the winter on me rain'd,
Altho' half starv'd, my sp’rit would spring
Up to new life to hear you sing.
I take even criticism kind,
That sparkles from so clear a mind.
Friends ought and may point out a spot,
But enemies make all a blot;
Friends sip the honey from the flow'r,-
All's verjuice to the waspish sour.
With more of Nature than of art,
From stated rules I often start,—
Rules never studied yet by me.
My muse is British, bold and free,
And loves at large to frisk and bound,
Unmankl'd, o'er poetic ground.
I love the garden, wild and wide,
Where oaks have plum-trees by their side,-
Where woodbines and the twisting vine
Clip round the pear-tree and the pine,—
Where mixt jonckeels and gowans grow,
And roses 'midst rank clover blow
Upon a bank of a clear strand,
Its wimplings led by Nature's hand.
Tho' docks and bramble here and there
May sometimes cheat the gard'ner's care,
Yet this to me's a paradise
Compar'd with prime cut plots and nice,
Where Nature has to Art resign'd
Till all looks mean, stiff, and confin'd.
May still my notes of rustic turn
Gain more of your respect than scorn,
I'll hug my fate, and tell sour fools
I'm more oblig'd to heav'n than schools.
Heaven Homer taught; the critic draws
Only from him, and such, their laws.
The native bards first plunge the deep
Before the artful dare to leap;
I've seen myself right many a time
Copy'd in diction, mode, and rhyme.
Now, Sir, again let me express
My wishing thoughts in fond address;
That for your health and love you bear
To two of my chief patrons* here,
You'd,-when the lavrocks rouse the day,
When beams and dews make blythsome May,
When blooming fragrance glads our isle
And hills with purple heather smile,—
Drop fancy'd ails, with courage stout,
Ward off the spleen, the stone, and gout.
May ne'er such foes disturb your nights,
Or elbow out your day delights.
Here you will meet the jovial train
Whose clangours echo o'er the plain,
While hounds with gowls both loud and clear,
Well tun'd, delight the hunter's ear,
As they on coursers, fleet as wind,
Pursue the fox, hart, hare, or hind.
Delightful game! where friendly ties
Are closer drawn, and health the prize.
We long for, and we wish you here,
Where friends are kind and claret clear.
The lovely hope of Som'ril's race
Who smiles with a seraphic grace,
And the fair sisters of the boy,
Will have, and add much to your joy.
* Lord and Lady Somerville.
Give warning to your noble friend.
Your humble servant shall attend
A willing Sancho and your slave,
With the best humour that I have,
To meet you on that river's shore
That Britons now divides no more.
TO DONALD M'EWEN, JEWELLER, AT ST. PETERSBURG.
How far frae hame my friend seeks fame!
And yet I canna wyte ye
T'employ your fire, and still aspire
By virtues that delyte ye.
Should fortune lour, 'tis in your power
(If heaven grant balmy health)
T' enjoy ilk hour a saul unsow'r,—
Content's nae bairn of wealth.
It is the mind that's not confin'd
To passions mean and vile
That's never pin'd, while thoughts refin'd
Can gloomy cares beguile.
Then Donald may be e'en as gay
On Russia's distant shore
As on the Tay, where usquebae
He us'd to drink before.
But, howsoe'er, haste, gather gear,
And syne pack up your treasure ;
Then to Auld Reekie come and beek ye,
And close your days with pleasure.
ON RECEIVING A PRESENT OF A GOLD SEAL, WITH HOMER'S HEAD.
THANKS to my frank, ingenious friend.
Your present's most genteel and kind,
Baith rich and shining as your mind;
And that immortal laurell'd pow
Upon the gem, sae well design'd
And execute, sets me on low.
The heavenly fire inflames my breast,
Whilst I unweary'd am in quest
Of fame; and hope that ages neist
Will do their Highland bard the grace
Upon their seals to cut his crest,
And blythest strakes of his short face.
Far less great Homer ever thought
(When he, harmonious beggar! sought
His bread thro' Greece) he should be brought
Frae Russia's shore by Captain Hugh *
To Pictland plains, sae finely wrought
On precious stone, and set by you.
Captain Hugh Eccles, master of a fine merchant-ship, which he lost in the unhappy fire at St. Petersburg.
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