EPISTLE TO THE HON. DUNCAN FORBES,

LORD ADVOCATE.

Shut in a closet six feet square,
No fash'd wi' meikle wealth or care,
I pass the live-lang day;
Yet some ambitious thoughts I have,
Which will attend me to my grave,
Sic busked baits they lay.
These keep my fancy on the wing,
Something that's blythe and snack to sing,
And smooth the wrunkled brow;
Thus care I happily beguile,
Hoping a plaudit and a smile

Frae best o' men, like you.

You wha in kittle casts o' state,
Whan property demands debate,

Can right what is dung wrang;
Yet blythely can, whan ye think fit,
Enjoy your friend, and judge the wit
And slidness o' a sang.

How mony, your reverse, unblest,
Whase minds gae wand'ring thro' a mist,
Proud as the thief in h—,
Pretend, forsooth, they're gentle fouk,
'Cause chance gies them o' gear the yowk,
And better chiels the shell!

I've seen a wean aft vex itsell,
And greet because it was not tall!
Heez'd on a boord, Oh then!
Rejoicing in the artfu' height,
How smirky look'd the little wight,
And thought itsell a man!

Sic bairns are some, blawn up a wee
Wi' splendour, wealth, and quality,
Upon these stilts grown vain;

They ower the pows o' poor fouk stride,
And neither are to haud nor bide,

Thinking this height their ain.

Now should ane speer, at sic a puff,
What gars thee look sae big and bluff?
Is't an attending menzie?

Or fifty dishes on your table?
Or fifty horses in your stable?

Or heaps o' glancing cunzie?

Are these the things thou ca's thysell?
Come, vain gigantic shadow, tell;
If thou say'st yes, I'll shaw
Thy picture-Mean's thy silly mind,
Thy wit's a croil, thy judgment blind,
And love worth nought ava.
Accept our praise, ye nobly born,
Whom Heav'n taks pleasure to adorn
Wi' ilka manly gift;

In courts or camps to serve your nation,
Warm'd wi' that gen'rous emulation
Which your forbears did lift.

In duty, wi' delight, to you
Th' inferior world do justly bow,

While you're the maist deny'd;
Yet shall your worth be ever priz❜d,
Whan strutting naethings are despis'd,
Wi' a' their stinking pride.

This to set aff as I am able,
I'll frae a Frenchman thigg a fable,
And busk it in a plaid;

And tho' it be a bairn o' Motte's,*
Whan I hae learnt it to speak Scots,
I am its second dad.

"Twa books, near neighbours in a shop,
The tane a gilded Turkey fop,

The tither's face was weather-beaten,
And cauf-skin jacket, sair worm-eaten.
The corky, proud o' his braw suit,

Curl'd up his nose, and thus cried out :

* Mons. la Motte, who has written lately a curious Collection of Fables, from which the following is imitated.

J

'Ah! place me on some fresher binks :
Figh! how this mouldy creature stinks!
How can a gentle book like me
Endure sic scoundrel company?
What may fouk say, to see me cling
Sae close to this auld ugly thing,
But that I'm of a simple spirit,
And disregard my proper merit?'

Quoth grey-beard, Whisht, sir, wi' your din;
For a' your meritorious skin,

I doubt if ye be worth within:
For as auld-fashion'd as I look,
May be I am the better book."
"O heav'ns! I canna thole the clash
O' this impertinent auld hash;

I winna stay ae moment langer.'

'My lord, please to command your anger; Pray only let me tell you that'

'What wad this insolent be at?

Rot out your tongue-pray, Master Symmer, Remove me frae this dinsome rhymer:

If you regard your reputation,

And us o' a distinguish'd station.

Hence frae this beast let me be hurried,
For wi' his stour and stink I'm worried.'
Scarce had he shook his paughty crap,
When in a customer did pap;

He up douse Stanza lifts, and eyes him,
Turns o'er his leaves, admires, and buys him;
This book,' said he,' is guid and scarce,
The saul o' sense in sweetest verse.'

But reading title o' gilt cleathing,

Cries, 'Gods! wha buys this bonny naithing?
Nought duller e'er was put in print:
Wow! what a deal o' Turkey's tint !'"

Now, sir, t'apply what we've invented,
You are the buyer represented;

And, may your servant hope My lay shall merit your regardI'll thank the gods for my reward, And smile at ilka fop.

FAMILIAR EPISTLES BETWEEN LIEUTENANT WILLIAM HAMIL TON* AND ALLAN RAMSAY.

EPISTLE I.

Gilbertfield, June 26, 1719.

Oh famed and celebrated Allan !

Renowned Ramsay, canty callan,

There's nowther Highlandman nor Lawlan,
In poetrie,

But may as soon ding down Tamtallan,†
As match wi' thee.

For ten times ten, and that's a hunder,
I hae been made to gaze and wonder,
When frae Parnassus thou didst thunder,
Wi' wit and skill,

Wherefore I'll soberly knock under,
And quat my quill.

Of poetry the hail quintessence

Thou hast suck'd up, left nae excrescence
To petty poets, or sic messens;

Tho' round thy stool

They may pick crumbs, and lear some lessons
At Ramsay's school.

Tho' Ben‡ and Dryden of renown,
Were yet alive in London town,
Like kings contending for a crown;

"Twad be a pingle,

Whilk o' you three wad gar words sound,
And best to jingle.

* [William Hamilton of Gilbertfield, near Glasgow. This gentleman was by some years Ramsay's predecessor, and in some degree his model, in Scottish verse. He published some pieces in "Watson's Collection of Scots Poems," 1706, and afterwards gave to the world a familiar paraphrase of "Blind Harry's Wallace," which has ever since had great popularity. The above epistles have some interest as the prototypes of those addressed by Burns to his friends Lapraik, Smith, and Sillar.]

† An old fortification upon the Firth of Forth, in East Lothian. The celebrated Ben Jonson.

Transform'd may I be to a rat,
Wer't in my pow'r, but I'd create
Thee upo' sight the laureat*

Of this our age,

Since thou may'st fairly claim to that
As thy just wage.

Let modern poets bear the blame,
Gin they respect not Ramsay's name,
Wha soon can gar them greet for shame,
To their great loss;

And send them a' right sneaking hame
By Weeping-cross.

Wha bourds wi' thee had need be wary,
And lear wi' skill thy thrust to parry,
When thou consults thy dictionary
O' ancient words,

Which come from thy poetic quarry

As sharp as swords.

Now, tho' I should baith reel and rottle,
And be as light as Aristotle,

At E'nburgh we sall hae a bottle

O' reaming claret,

Gin that my haff-pay† siller shottle
Can safely spare it.

At crambo then we'll rack our brain,
Drown ilk dull care and aiking pain,
Whilk aften does our spirits drain
O' true content;

Wow, wow! but we's be wonder fain,
When thus acquaint.

*Scots Ramsay press'd hard, and sturdily vaunted,
He'd fight for the laurel before he would want it,
But risit Apollo, and cry'd, "Peace there, Old Stile!
Your wit is obscure to one half of the isle."

B. SESS. OF POETS.

↑ He held his commission honourably in my Lord Hyndford's

regiment.

And may the stars, who shine aboon,
With honour notice real merit,

Be to my friend auspicious soon,
And cherish aye sae fine a spirit.