EPITAPH FOR A SHERIFF'S MESSENGER.
(WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED AT THE PARTICULAR DESIRE OF THE PERSON FOR WHOM IT IS INTENDED.)
ALAS, how empty all our worldly schemes!
Vain are our wishes, our enjoyment dreams.
A debt to nature one and all must pay,
Nor will the creditor defer her day;
Death comes a messenger, displays the writ
And to the fatal summons all submit.
An earthly messenger I was of yore,
The scourge of debtors then, but now-no more.
Oft have I stood in all my pomp confess'd,
The blazon beaming dreadful at my breast;
Oft have I waved on high th' attractive rod,
And made the wretch obsequious to my nod.
Pale shivering Poverty, that stalk'd behind,
His greasy rags loose fluttering in the wind,
And Terror, cudgel-arm'd, that strode before,
Still to my deeds unquestion'd witness bore.
Dire execution, as I march'd, was spread;
My threat'ning horn they heard-they heard and fled.
While thus destruction mark'd my headlong course,
Nor mortals durst oppose my matchless force,
A deadly warrant from the court of heaven
To Death, the sovereign messenger, was given.
Swift as the lightning's instantaneous flame,
Arm'd with his dart, the king of catchpoles came.
My heart, unmoved before, was seized with fear,
And sunk beneath his all-subduing spear:
To heaven's high bar the spirit wing'd its way,
And left the carcass forfeit to the clay.
Reader! though every ill beset thee round,
With patience bear, nor servilely despond;
Though heaven a while delay'd th' impending blow,
Heaven sees the sorrows of the world below,
And sets at last the suffering mourner free
From famine, misery, pestilence, and ME.
AT LOCHLEE, AUTHOR OF THE “FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS,” AND OTHER POEMS IN THE BROAD SCOTCH DIALECT.
O Ross, thou wale of hearty cocks,
Sae crouse and canty with thy jokes!
Thy hamely auldwarl'd muse provokes
Me for a while
To ape our gude plain countra folks
In verse and style.
Sure never carle was half sae gabby
E'er since the winsome days o' Habby:
Oh mayst thou ne'er gang clung or shabby,
Nor miss thy snaker!
Or I'll ca' fortune nasty drabby,
And say-pox take her!
Oh may the roupe ne'er roust thy wizen!
May thirst thy thrapple never gizzen!
But bottled ale in mony a dizzen,
Aye lade thy gantry!
And fouth o' vivres a' in season,
Plenish thy pantry!
Lang may thy stevin fill wi' glee
The glens and mountains of Lochlee,
Which were right gowsty but for thee,
Whase sangs enamour
Ilk lass, and teach wi' melody
The rocks to yamour.
Ye shak your head, but, o' my fegs,
Ye've set old Scota* on her legs,
Lang had she lyen wi' beffs and flegs,
Bumbazed and dizzie;
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs,
Waes me! poor hizzie !
Since Allan's death naebody cared
For ance to speer how Scota fared,
Nor plack nor thristled turner wared
To quench her drouth;
For frae the cottar to the laird
We a' rin South.
The Southland chiels indeed hae mettle,
And brawly at a sang can ettle,
Yet we right couthily might settle
O' this side Forth.
The devil pay them wi' a pettle
That slight the North
Our countra leed is far frae barren,
It's even right pithy and aulfarren,
Oursells are neiper-like, I warran,
* The name Ross gives to his muse.
For sense and smergh;
In kittle times when faes are yarring,
We're no thought ergh.
Oh! bonny are our greensward hows,
Where through the birks the burny rows,
And the bee bums, and the ox lows,
And saft winds rusle;
And shepherd lads on sunny knows
Blaw the blythe fusle.
It's true, we Norlans manna fa'
To eat sae nice or gang sae bra',
As they that come from far awa,
Yet sma's our skaith;
We've peace, (and that's well worth it a',) And meat, and claith.
Our fine newfangle sparks, I grant ye,
Gie poor auld Scotland mony a taunty;
They're grown sae ugertfu' and vaunty,
And capernoited,
They guide her like a canker'd aunty
That's deaf and doited,
Sae comes of ignorance I trow,
It's this that crooks their ill-faur'd mou'
Wi' jokes sae coarse, they gar fouk spue
For downright skonner;
For Scotland wants nae sons enew
To do her honour.
I here might gie a skreed o' names,
Dawties of Heliconian dames!
The foremost place Gawin Douglas claims,
And wha can match the fifth king James
For sang or jest?
Montgomery grave, and Ramsay gay,
Dunbar, Scot,* Hawthornden, and mae
Than I can tell; for o' my fae,
"Twould take a livelang simmer day
To name the half.
The saucy chiels—I think they ca' them
Critics, the muckle sorrow claw them,
(For mense nor manners ne'er could awe them
Frae their presumption,)
They need nae try thy jokes to fathom;
They want rumgumption.
But ilka Mearns and Angus bairn,
Thy tales and sangs by heart shall learn,
And chiels shall come frae yont the Cairn-
-Amounth, right yousty,
If Ross will be so kind as share in
Their pint at Drousty.t
Author of the Vision.-[It was written by Ramsay, under the name of Scot. A. D.]
† An alehouse in Lochlee.
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