Ithers frae aff the bunkers sank,

Wi' een like collops scor'd;

Some ramm'd their noddles wi' a clank,
E'en like a thick-scull'd lord,
On posts that day.

TARTANA, OR THE PLAID.*

Ye Caledonian beauties, who have long
Been both the muse and subject of my song,
Assist your bard, who in harmonious lays,
Designs the glory of your Plaid to raise :
How my fond breast with blazing ardour glows,
Whene'er my song on you just praise bestows.
Phoebus and his imaginary nine,

With me have lost the title of divine;
To no such shadows will I homage pay,
These to my real muses shall give way-

My muses who, on smooth meand'ring Tweed,

Stray through the groves, or grace the clover mead;
Or these who bathe themselves where haughty Clyde
Does roaring o'er his lofty cat'racts ride;

Or you, who on the banks of lofty Tay,
Drain from the flow'rs the early dews of May,
To varnish on your cheek the crimson dye,
Or make the white the falling snow outvie;

*["The silken plaid, which, at the period of the Union, was the universal attire of the Scottish ladies, and which is capable of more graceful variety of adjustment than any other piece of female dress, was beginning to be laid aside by many of the fair sex, after the rebellion of 1715, probably from being considered as a mark of a party. Ramsay had no dislike to it on that account, and he admired it as an elegant and decorous piece of dress. He resolved to vindicate its merits, and turn, if possible, the tide of fashion, which threatened to strip his countrywomen of their appropriate ornament. Tartana, or the Plaid, is written in English verse, and affords of itself sufficient proof, that, had its author been a native of a southern part of the island, he would have held no mean rank in the catalogue of English poets."WOODHOUSELEE.]

And you who on Edina's street display
Millions of matchless beauties ev'ry day;
Inspir'd by you, what poet can desire
To warm his genius at a brighter fire!

I sing the Plaid, and sing with all my skill;
Mount then, O fancy, standard to my will!
Be strong each thought, run soft each happy line,
That gracefulness and harmony may shine,
Adapted to the beautiful design.

Great is the subject, vast th' exalted theme,
And shall stand fair in endless rolls of fame!
The Plaid's antiquity comes first in view—
Precedence to antiquity is due:

Antiquity contains a certain spell,

To make ev'n things of little worth excel;
To smallest subjects gives a glaring dash,
Protecting high-born idiots from the lash:
Much more 'tis valued, when with merit plac'd—
It graces merit, and by merit's grac❜d.

O first of garbs! garment of happy fate!
So long employ'd, of such an antique date;
Look back some thousand years, till records fail,
And lose themselves in some romantic tale,
We'll find our godlike fathers nobly scorn'd
To be with any other dress adorn'd;
Before base foreign fashions interwove,

Which 'gainst their int'rest and their brav'ry strove.
'Twas they could boast their freedom with proud Rome,
And, arm'd in steel, despise the senate's doom;
Whilst o'er the globe their eagle they display'd,
And conquer'd nations prostrate homage paid,
They, only they, unconquer'd stood their ground,
And to the mighty empire fix'd the bound.
Our native prince who then supplied the throne,
In Plaid array'd, magnificently shone;
Nor seem'd his purple, or his ermine less,
Tho' cover'd by the Caledonian dress.

In this at court the thanes were gaily clad;
With this the shepherds and the hynds were glad;
In this the warrior wrapp'd his brawny arms;
With this our beauteous mothers veil'd their charms;

When ev'ry youth, and ev'ry lovely maid,
Deem'd it a dishabille to want their Plaid.

O heav'ns, how chang'd! how little look their race, When foreign chains with foreign modes take place; When East and Western Indies must combine To deck the fop, and make the gewgaw shine! Thus, while the Grecian troops in Persia lay, And learn'd the habit to be soft and gay, By luxury enerv'd, they lost the day.

I ask'd Varell, what soldiers he thought best? And thus he answer'd to my plain request: "Were I to lead battalions out to war, And hop'd to triumph in the victor's car, To gain the loud applause of worthy fame, And columns rais'd to eternise my name, I'd choose (had I my choice) that hardy race Who fearless can look terrors in the face; Who, 'midst the snows, the best of limbs can fold In Tartan Plaids, and smile at chilling cold: No useless trash should pain my soldiers' back, Nor canvass-tents make loaden axles crack; No rattling silks I'd to my standards bind, But bright Tartanas waving in the wind: The Plaid alone should all my ensigns be, This army from such banners would not flee. These, these were they, who naked taught the way To fight with art, and boldly gain the day !" Ev'n great Gustavus stood himself amaz'd, While at their wondrous skill and force he gaz❜d. With such brave troops one might o'er Europe run, Make out what Rich'lieu fram'd, and Louis had begun. Degenerate men! now, ladies, please to sit,

That I the Plaid in all its airs may hit,

With all the powers of softness mix'd with wit.
While scorching Titan tawns the shepherd's brow,
And whistling hynds sweat lagging at the plow,
The piercing beams Brucina can defy,
Not sun-burnt she's, nor dazzled is her eye.
Ugly's the mask, the fan's a trifling toy,
To still at church some girl or restless boy.

Fix'd to one spot's the pine and myrtle shades,
But on each motion wait the umbrellian Plaids,
Repelling dust when winds disturb the air,
And give a check to every ill-bred stare.
Light as the pinions of the airy fry
Of larks and linnets who traverse the sky,
Is the Tartana, spun so very fine,

Its weight can never make the fair repine,
By raising ferments in her glowing blood,
Which cannot be escap'd within the hood:
Nor does it move beyond its proper sphere,
But lets the gown in all its shape appear;
Nor is the straightness of her waist deny'd
To be by every ravish'd eye surveyed.
For this the hoop may stand at largest bend;
It comes not nigh, nor can its weight offend.
The hood and mantle make the tender faint;
I'm pain'd to see them moving like a tent.
By heather Jenny, in her blanket dress'd,
The hood and mantle fully are express'd,
Which round her neck with rags is firmly bound,
While "Heather besoms !" loud she screams around.
Was Goody Strode so great a pattern, say,
Are ye to follow when such lead the way?
But know each fair who shall this surtout use,
You're no more Scots, and cease to be my muse.
The smoothest labours of the Persian loom,
Lin'd in the Plaid, set off the beauty's bloom;
Faint is the gloss, nor come the colours nigh,
Tho' white as milk, or dipt in scarlet dye.
The lily, plucked by fair Pringella, grieves,
Whose whiter hand outshines its snowy leaves:
No wonder then white silks in our esteem,
Match'd with her fairer face, they sullied seem.

If shining red Campbella's cheeks adorn,
Our fancies straight conceive the blushing morn;
Beneath whose dawn the sun of beauty lies,
Nor need we light but from Campbella's eyes.

If lin❜d with green, Stuarta's plaid we view,
Or thine, Ramseia, edg'd around with blue;

One shows the spring, when nature is most kind-
The other heav'n, whose spangles lift the mind.

A garden-plot, enrich'd with chosen flowers,
In sunbeams basking after vernal showers,
Where lovely pinks in sweet confusion rise,
And amaranths and eglantines surprise;
Hedg'd round with fragrant brier and jessamine,
The rosy thorn and variegated green:

These give not half that pleasure to the view,
As when, Fergusia, mortals gaze on you;
You raise our wonder, and our love engage,
Which makes us curse, and yet admire the hedge-
The silk and tartan hedge, which doth conspire
With you to kindle love's soft spreading fire.
How many charms can ev'ry fair one boast!
How oft's our fancy in the plenty lost!
These more remote, these we admire the most.
What's too familiar often we despise,

But rarity makes still the value rise.
If Sol himself should shine thro' all the day,
We cloy, and lose the pleasure of his ray;
But if behind some marly cloud he steal,
Nor for some time his radiant head reveal,
With brighter charms his absence he repays,
And every sunbeam seems a double blaze.
So, when the fair their dazzling lustres shroud,
And disappoint us with a Tartan cloud,
How fondly do we peep with wishful eye,
Transported when one lovely charm we spy?
Oft to our cost, ah me! we often find

The pow'r of love strikes deep, tho' he be blind;
Perch'd on a lip, a cheek, a chin, or smile,

Hits with surprise, and throws young hearts in jail.
From when the cock proclaims the rising day,
And milk-maids sing around sweet curds and whey,
Till grey-ey'd twilight, harbinger of night,
Pursues o'er silver mountains sinking light,*
I can unwearied from my casements view
The Plaid, with something still about it new.

* Ochil hills.