EPISTLE TO JOHN WARDLAW. (1)
My worthy friend, I here conjure ye,
By the respect I ever bure ye,
You'll let me ken, by your neist letter,
Why ye hae been sae lang my debtor-
I charge ye by these royal names,
Frae Fergus First to Octave James,
As loyalty you still exprest,
To mind your friend whan he's distrest,
Distrest wi' little trading gawin,
And the dreigh income of what's awin,
The curst peremptor, London bills,
That gif return'd, our credit kills.
Then there's the necessars of life,
That crave frae ane that has a wife,
House hawding, baith in milk and meal,
And mutton, beef, and shanks o' veal;
Nay, now and then, aff care to syne
A sneaker, or a waught o' wine;
And that the getlings prove na fools,
They maun be hawden at the schools.
All these require the ready down
Frae us wha live in borrows town,
That neither hae nor barn, nor byre,
Washing, nor elding for our fire;
Nor sheep, nor swine, nor hens, nor geese,
Nor sarking lint, nor claithing fleece.
(1) ["This poem has not hitherto appeared in any collection of Ramsay's works. It appeared first in the Scots Magazine' for 1797, where it is mentioned that Wardlaw was factor for the laird of Gartshore, and was accustomed annually to pay the poet the interest on a bond for £200, due to him by the laird. It is one of the most characteristic of all the productions of Ramsay's muse."-Chambers.]
Unless that Dubbies-land be staickit
By us, we e'en may strutt stark naiket
And starve; while ye jouk upo' lands,
Have ilka thing laid to your hands
Of whatsoe'er ye stand in need,
Of your ain growth and your ain breed.
Frae udders of your kine and ewes,
Your cream, your cheese, your butter flows;
Your eggs and chickens (best o' fare)
Are yours, withouten ony care;
The nursing hen asks nae mair pay,
But only what ye fling away;
Whane'er ye like ye cram your creels
Wi' trouts, and pikes, and carps, and eels;
Horse-laids of fruit bob on your trees,
The honey's brought you by the bees;
Roots for your pot you hae in plenty,
Wi' artichokes, and bow-kail dainty;
For gryce and goslings, calves and lamb,
Ye've mickle mair nor can ye cram;
Your bannocks grow upon your strae,
Your barley brings you usquebae.
From what I've said its eith to prove
You should not filthy lucre love;
What use for cash hae landwart lairds,
Unless to play't at dice or cards—
If useless in your pouch, 't wears less,
Until it grows as smooth as glass.
Now, since it obvious is and plain,
That coin sae worthless is and vain
Wi' such as you, let me advise ye
Ne'er let regards for it entice ye,
To haud your hands ower hard about it,
And since we canna fend without it,
Pray gather't up, white, yellow, brown,
And pack it in to our poor town.
Now, either do this same frae hand,
Or keep it, and gie us the land.
e'en set wicked Tray,
That barking sat upo' the strae,*
Yet couldna mak a meal of meat o't,
But wadna let poor horsie eat o't.
Wad ye to what I say agree,
Ye soon would ken what drinkers dree.
Thus far, Sir, I have merry been,
As a sworn enemy to spleen,
And hearty friends, like us, weel ken,
There's nought ill said that's no ill ta'en.
My proper view, ye'll eithly find,
Was mainly to put you in mind;
I wad be vext, were ye unkind.
But never having reason gien,
I hope you're still what ye hae been,
As you in mony ways did show it,
The friend and patron of your poet,
Dated thus:-From my Palace on the Castle-bank of Edinburgh, June 5th, 45 minutes after 6 o'clock at night, A. D. 1736, and of our age the 51st year.
|