PASTORAL.

VOL. II.

B

G

1721.

RICHY AND SANDY :

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.

RICHY.

WHAT gars thee look fae dowf, dear Sandy say?
Cheer up, dull fellow, take thy reed and play
"My apron deary," or fome wanton tune:
Be merry, lad, and keep thy heart aboon.

SANDY.

Na, na, it winna do; leave me to mane : This aught days twice o'er tell'd I'll whistle nane.

RICHY.

Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Alexander Pope.

B 2

RICHY.

Wow, man, that 's unco' fad !-Is 't that

ye'r jo

Has ta'en the ftrunt? Or has fome bogle-bo, Glowrin frae 'mang auld waws, gi'en ye a fleg? Or has fome dauted wedder broke his leg?

SANDY.

Naithing like that, fic troubles eith were borne: What 's bogles, wedders, or what Maufy's scorn? Our lofs is meikle mair, and past remead: Adie, that play'd and fang fae sweet, is dead.

RICHY.

Dead! fay'ft thou?-Oh, had up my heart,

O Pan!

Ye gods, what laids ye lay on feckless man!
Alake therefore! I canna wyt ye'r wae;

I'll bear ye company for year and day.
A better lad ne'er lean'd out o'er a kent,
Or hounded coly o'er the moffy bent:
Blyth at the bught how aft ha' we three been,
Heartfome on hills, and gay upon the green.

SANDY.

SANDY.

That's true indeed; but now thae days are gane, And, with him, a' that 's pleasant on the plain. A fummer day I never thought it lang,

To hear him make a roundel or a fang.

How fweet he fung where vines and myrtles grow,
Of wimbling waters which in Latium flow *.
Titry the Mantuan herd, wha lang finfyne,
Best fung on aeten reed the lover's pine,
Had he been to the fore now in our days,
Wi' Adie he had frankly dealt his bays.
As lang 's the warld fhall Amaryllis ken,
His Rofamond † fhall echo thro' the glen:
While on burn banks the yellow gowan grows,
Or wand'ring lambs rin bleating after ewes,
His fame shall last: last shall his fang of weirs ‡,
While British bairns brag of their bauld forbeairs.
We'll meikle mifs his blyth and witty jeft,
At fpaining time, or at our Lambmafs feast.
O, Richy! but 'tis hard that death ay reaves
Away the best fowk, and the ill anes leaves.
Hing down ye'r heads, ye hills, greet out ye springs,
Upon ye'r edge na mair the fhepherd fings.

RICHY.

* His poetic epiftle from Italy to the Earl of Halifax.

† An opera wrote by him.

His Campaign, an heroic poem.