Alexander Pope

J. R., "A Pastoral on the Death of Alexander Pope, Esq; in imitation of Allan Ramsay" Gentleman's Magazine 14 (August 1744) 445.

Simie, behauld wheir blythsome Patie treads
In stumlin paice, alang the flaw'ry meads!
Wot you, what cause his peace o' mind hais broke,
That he alane leves his neclected flockk,
An why i' murnfu' meid, an dounkaist looks,
Mare lyke a ghaist, than lyke a mon he wauks?

Troth I nae kenn what's brout the thyng about,
But heira cums, an I'le inquire it out.
Patie, my ladd, I prythee saye in brief,
Why weirs thy faice the liferie o' grief?
Thy owerflowin ene seme to impart
Som hygh spryng-tyde o' sorro's i' thy hart;
Haie Peggy show'd sum kyndness to a fae,
That aw thy mirry glee is turn'd to wae?

Nae kyndness shown by Peggy to a fae
Cud turn my mirry glee to syke sad wae:
Nae kyndness shown by Petty to my sel,
Cud lift my hart, aboon the grief I feel.

Saye then, in few, what gars thy spyrits drop?

Jemmie, my grief spryngs frae the deeth o' POPE.

The deeth o' Pope! gud Godds, is Sawny deid,
An tine his jurny to th' elysian shade!
I canno' blaim thy sighs, and teirs, sin hevin
Sae just a pattent to thy grief hais given:
The churl, whase niggard ene wald no disburse
A teir, ower a tendir fader's herse,
Cud no forbeir t' outweep a winter shour,
To thynk immartal Sawney is nae mare.

Eyn till a hayr my last neight's dream's cum true;
Methaut as owr the plane I walkt we' Sue,
I met the peer auld bard, whase tunefu' sang
Maid aw the swains admyre, and lassis lang,
Wrapp'd in a windin sheit as whyte as snaw;
Sue bad him a gud neight, and kurtsy'd law;
I skraip't a legg, an ax'd him how a did,
At which he maid a stop, an smylin saide,
"Jemmie, my dayte of life expyres to neight,
Jemmie, adieu;" then vanisht frae my seight.
I cry'd as bitterly at what he spoke,
As Peter at the crawin o' the cockk;
And when I waik't it fill'd my hart wi' feirs,
To fynd my pillo slaver't owr wi' teirs.

Sune as I heird the dolefu' tydings, strait
Unto a siller hayr'd auld sage I heid,
Wha lives cag'd up, within a lanely cell,
An thyngs past, present, an to cum can tell:
I speer'd him, to ackquent me gin he knew,
Whether, or nae, the fata' news were true.
He sigh'd, he bett his brist, he shak'd his hede,
An answer'd me, "Patie, alack! he's died—
Gie ear, an I'le declayr the cause, why fayte
Epitymiz'd peer Sawny's martal dayte.
Opollo pray'd of aw the pours divyne,
His kingdum o' Parnassus to refyne.
To grant his prayer the deities agreid,
If he cud fynd ane worthie to suckseid:
Opollo naim'd peer Sawny, an thus says,
Their's nane but he is fyt to ha my plaice:
The Godds were aw well pleisd, and sent Deeth down
To fetch the sawl o' Pope, to weir the crown."

An wha to ha his plaice cud be mare fyt?
A man wald sweir, Phoeb' thout what Sawny writ.

Colly, the ode monger, whom Sawny maid
The heroe of his hum'rous Dunciad,
Will laff in's sleeve, to heir o' Sawny's deeth,
An bliss the chance that robb'd him o' his breeth.

I've wondert aft how Colly com to weir
The larral, which belangs Opollo's heir:
Opollo hais disawn'd him for a son,
An the Nine frete that he sud weir the crown:
Haw cums the larral plaicd upo' his brow,
Spyte of Opollo, an the muses too?
An why dis cowrin Peggasus abase
Himsel, to be a hackney to an ass?

In troth nae reson can be geen, for what
That blundrin oafe was maid a larreat;
Ecept the larral, which his brow adorns,
Hais been presented him, — to hydd his h—s.

Why waiste we breeth to taulk of a baboan,
Whase mungrel verse is barren o' renown:
Eyn when in praise o' George he dis indyte,
(A subject which wald mack a statue wryte
As learn'dly as blinn John) he canno' raise
A mite, frae onny readers purse, o' praise.
But Pope, peer stiff'ned bard! wheneir he writ,
Charmd aw his readers wi' syke poinant wit,
That criticks arm'd wi' spyte, and cramm'd wi' splene,
Nae faut cud charge on his unerrin pen.
Cud Homer rise frae the Elysian shade,
An view the nyce translation Sawny maid,
How wald the weil pleisd poet laff an smyle,
To see himself claith'd in an Inglish style!
The Inglish driss wald like him better fare,
And he wald keep it fur his Sunday's wear.

Lang as I lyve I neir sal think o' Pope,
But my twa ene will to his mem'ry drop
Extempore trybute, an my hart deplayr
The absent bard, gane, to return nae mare.
When the revolvin sun sal bring the day
Wherein deeth maid immartal Pope his prey,
My teeth sal keip a holyday, an nat
Ane dropp o' lickar travvel down my throte.

I the same pennance on my gutts injoyn.

An if that day wi' fude I pampir mine,
May his ghaist rise, driss'd in his winding robe,
An pluckk the half-chow'd vittals frae my gobb.

But see, the sun hais peep'd belaw yon plane,
An gane, till morn, to dabble in the maine:
'Tis time to fold our flockks, and hame return;
Come weipe your ene, an let us cese to murn;
Our teirs canno' rekail him frae the deid,
Then why sud we repyne for what is past remeid.