John Gay

Allan Ramsay, "Epistle to Mr. John Gay" Poems by Allan Ramsay (1728) 2:163-69.

Dear Lad, wha linkan o'er the Lee,
Sang Blowzalind and Bowzybee,
And, like the Lavrock, merrily
Wak'd up the Morn,
When thou didst tune, with heartsome Glee,
Thy Bog-reed-horn.

To thee, frae Edge of Pentland Height,
Where Fawns and Fairies take Delight,
And revel a' the live lang Night,
O'er Glens and Braes,
A Bard that has the second Sight
Thy Fortune spaes.

Now, lend thy Lug, and tent me, GAY,
Thy Fate appears like Flow'rs in May,
Fresh flowrishing, and lasting ay,
Firm as the Aik,
Which envious Winds, when Criticks bray,
Shall never shake.

Come, shaw your Loof. — Ay, there's the Line
Fortells thy Verse shall ever shine,
Dawted whilst living by the Nine,
And a' the Best,
And be, when past the mortal Line,
Of Fame possest.

Immortal Pope, and skilfu' John,
The learned Leach frae Callidon,
With mony a witty Dame and Don,
O'er lang to name,
Are of your Roundels very fon,
And sound your Fame.

And sae do I, wha roose but few,
Which nae sma' Favour is to you:
For to my Friends I stand right true,
With Shanks a spar;
And my good Word (ne'er gi'en but due)
Gangs unko far.

Here mettled Men my Muse mantain,
And ilka Beauty is my Friend;
Which keeps me canty, brisk and bein,
Ilk wheeling Hour,
And a sworn Fae to hatefu' Spleen,
And a' that's sour.

But bide ye Boy, the main's to say,
Clarinda bright as rising Day,
Divinely Bonny, Great and Gay,
Of thinking even,
Whase Words and Looks, and Smiles display
Full Views of Heaven.

To rumage Nature for what's braw,
Like Lillies, Roses, Gems and Snaw;
Compar'd with her's, their Lustre fa',
And bauchly tell
Her Beauties: She excels them a',
And's like her sell.

As fair a Form as e'er was blest,
To have an Angel for a Guest;
Happy the Prince who is possest
Of sic a Prize,
Whose Vertues place her with the best
Beneath the Skies.

O sonsy GAY! this heavenly born,
Whom ev'ry Grace strives to adorn,
Looks not upon thy Lays with Scorn;
Then bend thy Knees,
And bless the Day that ye was born
With Arts to please.

She says, Thy Sonnet smoothly sings,
Sae ye may craw and clap your Wings,
And smile at Ether-capite Stings
With careless Pride,
When sae much Wit and Beauty brings
Strength to your Side.

Lilt up your Pipes, and rise aboon
Your Trivia and your Moorland Tune,
And sing Clarinda late and soon,
In touring Strains,
Till gratefu' Gods cry out, Well done,
And praise thy Pains.

Exalt thy Voice, that all around,
May echo back the lovely Sound,
Frae Dover Cliffs, with Samphire crown'd,
To Thule's Shore,
Where Northward no more Britain's found
But seas that rore.

Thus sing, — whil'st I frae Arthur's Height,
O'er Chiviot glowr with tyr'd Sight,
And langing wish, like raving Wight,
To be set down,
Frae Coach and sax, baith trim and tight,
In London Town.

But lang I'll gove and bleer my Ee,
Before, alake! that Sight I see;
Then, best Relief, I'll strive to be
Quiet and content,
And streek my Limbs down easylie
Upon the Bent.

There sing the Gowans, Broom and Trees,
The Crystal Burn and Westlin Breez,
The bleeting Flocks, and bisy Bees,
And blythsome Swains,
Wha rant and dance, with kiltit Dees,
O'er Mossy Plains.

Farewell; — but, e'er we part, let's pray,
GOD save Clarinda Night and Day,
And grant her a' she'd wish to ha'e,
Withoutten End!—
Nae mair at present I've to say,
But am your Friend.