ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
J. O., "Lines occasioned by the late Representation of the Gentle Shepherd" Morning Chronicle and London Advertiser (25 September 1778).
1719: William Hamilton of Gilbertfield
1720: C. T.
1722: David Mallet
1725: William Hamilton of Bangour
1728 ca.: William Somervile
1729: Joseph Mitchell
1753: Rev. John Werge
1758: Rev. James Grainger
1761: William Shenstone
1762: Robert Lloyd
1770 ca.: Adam Smith
1772: Dr. John Aikin
1773: Samuel Johnson
1774: William Richardson
1774: T. V.
1776: James Beattie
1778: J. H.
1778: J. O.
1780 ca.: Alexander Fraser Tytler
1783: Rev. Hugh Blair
1786: John Pinkerton
1787: Robert Burns
1790 ca.: Rev. Alexander Geddes
1791: John Learmont
1791: Robert Cumming
1791: Alexander Wilson
1791: Ebenezer Picken
1794: Joseph Ritson
1794: Robert Alves
1796: Gavin Turnbull
1797: George Dyer
1800 ca.: George Chalmers
1802: Anna Seward
1806: Charles Brockden Brown
1809: J. M'D.
1816: George Colman the Younger
1817: Leigh Hunt
1819: Thomas Campbell
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825: Allan Cunningham
1830: Rev. George Barrell Cheever
1832: John Wilson
1851: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1860: George Gilfillan
1880: William Minto
1882: Epes Sargent
1882: Edmund Gosse
1778: Allan Ramsay
Still was the hour, the moon all bright,
When on the side of Primrose Hill
A Gentle Shepherd, in the dead of night,
Sat moaning by a murm'ring rill.
Him Colin spied — an humble swain,
A friend to pity still confess'd:
He hailed his Ramsay once again,
And cried, encircled to his breast,
"My dearest, honest, hearty Callan,
My blithe, my witty, canty Allan,
Why look sae sour?
Your darling bairn was seen last night,
And sure, I thought her fair and bright
As any flower.
"That bonny, rosy, na'land lassie,
Wha' look'd to Roger unco' saucy,
Weel play'd her part:
And troth, my friend, the English dame,
Hitchcock — and weel I like the name,
Shew'd meikle art."—
"You're right," quo' Allan, wi' heart fu' heavy,
"Yet did it not most sadly grieve ye,
And gie you pain,
That a' the rest should twist and turn,
Like revell'd threads upon a pirn,
My words in vain?
"O! wou'd that sonsy lassie Harper,
The prettiest, sweetest, little chirper
In a' the town,
But sing my wordies thro' her throat,
And sweetly warble Allan's note,
My joys 'twould crown.
"She makes, I trow, nae meikle phrase
'Bout squeaking vile Italian lays,
But sweetly sings
Our hamely sangs, wi' such an art
It charms our ears, and heats our hearts;
Ay! e'en the King's.
"And little, lad! did I expect
That Digges auld friends wou'd sae neglect,
And sae much scorn:
Lord, man, my Glaud I did na ken,
Nor e'en Sir William — sure sic men
Were never born!
"Yet Digges I've seen in E'nburgh town
Get meikle honour and renown
In Patie's part;
But now, upon your London stage,
With Patie he will ne'er engage,
Ah! wae's my heart.
"And faith! he's right, for troth, my friend,
To tell the true thought of my mind,
And be sincere,
Digges ne'er can better shew his art,
Mair please the eye, or touch the heart,
Than in King Lear."