c.1722 Poem, William Starrat of Strabane: ‘A Pastoral in Praise of Allan Ramsay’

Epistle from Mr. William Starrat,
Teacher of Mathematicks at Straban in Ireland

Ae windy Day last Owk, I’ll ne’er forget,

I think I hear the hailstanes rattling yet;

On Crochan Buss my Hirdsell took the Lee,

As ane wad wish, just a’ beneath my Ee;

I in the Beild of yon auld Birk-tree Side

Poor cauldrife Coly whing’d aneath my Plaid,

Right cozylie was set to ease my Stumps,

Well hap’d with Bountith-hose and twa soll’d Pumps;

Syne on my Four-hours Luntion chew’d my Cude,

Sic Kilter pat me in a MERRY MOOD:

My Whistle frae my Blanket-nook I drew,

And lilted ower thir twa three Lines to you.

Blaw up my Heart-strings ye Pierian Quines,

That ga’e the Grecian Bards their bony Rimes,

And learn’d the Latin Lowns sic Springs to play,

As gars the Warld gang dancing to this Day.

In vain I seek your Help; ’tis bootless Toil

With sic dead Ase to muck a Moorland Soil

Give me the Muse that calls past Ages back,

And shaws proud Southren Sangsters their Mistake,

That frae their Thames can fetch the laurel North,

And big Parnassus on the Frith of Forth.

Thy Breast alane this gladsome Guest does fill

With Strains, that warm our hearts like Cannel Gill,

And learns thee in thy umquhile Gutcher’s Tongue,

The blythest Lilts that e’er my lugs heard sung.

RAMSAY! For ever live: For wha like you

In deathless Sang sic Life-like Pictures drew?

Not he wha shilome with his Harp cou’d ca’

The dancing Stanes to big the Theban Wa’

Nor he (shamefa’s Fool Head) as Stories tell

Could whistle back an auld dead Wife frae Hell;

Not e’en the loyal Brooker of Bell-Trees

Wha sang with hungry Wame his want of Fees;

Nor Haby’s Dron cou’d with thy Wind-pipe please,

When in his well kend Clink thou manes the Death

Of Lucky Wood and Spence (a matchless Skaith

To Canigate) sae gash thy Gab-trees gang,

The Carlines live for ever in thy Sang.

Or when the Country Bridal thou pursues,

To redd the Regal Tulzie sets thy Muse,

Thy soothing Sangs bring canker’d Carles to Ease,

Some lowps to Lutter’s Pipe, some birls Bawbies.

But gin to graver notes thou tunes thy Breath,

And Sings poor Sandy’s Grief for Edie’s Death,

Or Matthew’s Loss; the Lambs in Consort mae,

And Lanesome Ringwood youls upon the Brae.

Good God! what tuneless Heart-strings wudna twang,

When love and Beauty animates thy Sang?

Skies echoe back, when thou blaws up thy Reed,

In Burchet’s Praise, for clapping of thy Head:

And when thou bids the paughty Czar stand yon,

The Wandought seems beneath thee on his Throne.

Now, be my Saul, and I have nought behin,

And weil I wat fause Swearing is a Sin,

I’d rather have thy Pipe, and twa three Sheep

Than a’ the Gold the Monarchs Coffers keep.

Coly, look out, the few we have’s gane wrang,

This se’nteen Owks I have not play’d sae lang;

Ha, Crummy, ha — trowth I maun quat my Sang.

But, Lad, neist Mirk we’ll to the Haining Drive,

When in fresh Lizar they get Spleet and rive;

The Royts will rest, and gin ye like my Play,

I’ll whistle to thee all the live lang Day.