Joseph Addison

Allan Ramsay, Richy and Sandy, a Pastoral on the Death of Mr. Joseph Addison (1719) 1-4.

What gars thee look sae dowf, dear Sandy, say,
Chear up dull Fallow, take thy Reed and play,
My Apron Deary, — or some wanton Tune,
Be merry Lad, and keep thy Heart aboon.

Na, Na! It winna do! Leave me to mane,
This aught Days twice o'er tell'd I'll whistle nane.

Wow Man, that's unco' sad, — is that ye'r Jo
Has ta'en the Strunt? — Or has some Bogle-bo
Glowrin frae 'mang auld Waws gi'en ye a Fleg?
Or has some dawted Wedder broke his Leg?

Naithing like that, sic Troubles eith were born!
What's Bogles, — Wedders, — or what's Mausy's Scorn;
Our loss is meikle mair, and past Remeed,
EDIE that play'd and sang sae sweet is dead.

Dead say'st thou, Oh! Had up my Heart O Pan!
Ye Gods! What Laids ye lay on feckless Man,
Alake therefore, I canna wyt ye'r Wae,
I'll bear ye Company for Year and Day.
A better Lad ne'er lean'd out o'er a Kent,
Or hound a Coly o'er the mossy Bent;
Blyth at the Bought how aft ha' we three been,
Hartsome on Hills, and gay upon the Green.

That's true indeed! But now thae Days are gane,
And with him a' that's pleasant on the Plain.
A Summer Day I never thought it lang
To hear him make a Roundel or a Sang.
How sweet he sung where Vines and Myrtles grow,
Of wimpling Waters which in Latium flow.
Titry the Mantuan Herd wha lang sinsyne
Best sung on aeten Reed the Lover's Pine,
Had he been to the fore now in our Days,
Wi' EDIE he had frankly dealt his Bays:
As lang's the Warld shall Amaryllis ken,
His Rosamond shall eccho thro' the Glen;
While on Burn Banks the yellow Gowan grows,
Or wand'ring Lambs rin bleeting after Ews,
His Fame shall last, last shall his Sang of Weirs,
While British Bairns brag of their bauld Forbears.
We'll mickle miss his blyth and witty Jest
At Spaining Time, or at our Lambmass Feast.
O Richy, but 'tis hard that Death ay reaves
Away the best Fouck, and the ill anes leaves.
Hing down ye'r Heads ye Hills, greet out ye'r Springs,
Upon ye'r Edge na mair the Shepherd sings.

Than he had ay a good Advice to gi'e,
And kend my Thoughts amaist as well as me;
Had I been thowless, vext, or oughtlins sow'r,
He wad have made me blyth in haff an Hour.
Had Rosie ta'en the Dorts, — or had the Tod
Worry'd my Lamb, — or were my Feet ill shod,
Kindly he'd laugh when sae he saw me dwine,
And tauk of Happiness like a Divine.
Of ilka Thing he had an unco' Skill,
He kend be Moon Light how Tides ebb and fill.
He kend, What kend he no? E'en to a Hair
He'd tell O'er-night gin neist Day wad be fair.
Blind John, ye mind, wha sang in kittle Phrase,
How the ill Sp'rit did the first Mischief raise;
Mony a Time beneath the auld Birk-tree,
What's bonny in that Sang he loot me see.
The Lasses aft flang down their Rakes and Pales,
And held their Tongues, O strange! to hear his Tales.

Sound be his Sleep, and saft his Wak'ning be,
He's in a better Case than thee or me;
He was o'er good for us, the Gods hae ta'en
Their ain but back, — he was a borrow'd-len.
Let us be good, gin Virtue be our Drift,
Then may we yet forgether 'boon the Lift.
But see the Sheep are wysing to the Cleugh;
Thomas has loos'd his Ousen frae the Pleugh;
Maggy by this has beuk the Supper Scones,
And nuckle Ky stand rowting on the Lones:
Come Richy let us truse and hame o'er bend,
And make the best of what we canna mend.