THE LAUREL DISPUTED;
OR, THE MERITS OF ALLAN RAMSAY AND ROBERT FERGUSSON CONTRASTED.
Sic war the joys his cracks cou'd eith afford
To peer an' ploughman, barrowman, or lord;
In ilka clachan, wife, man, wean, an' callan,
Cracket an' sang frae morn to e'en o' Allan.
Learn'd fouk, that lang in colleges an' schools,
Hae sooket learning to the to the vera hools,
An' think that naething charms the heart sae weel's
Lang cracks o' gods, Greeks, Paradise, and deils;
Their pows are cram't sae fu' o' lear an' art,
Plain simple nature canna reach their heart;
But whare's the rustic that can, readin', see
Sweet Peggy skiffin' ow'r the dewy lee;
Or, wishfu' stealing up the sunny howe
To gaze on Pate, laid sleeping on the knowe;
Or hear how Bauldy ventur'd to the deil,
How thrawn auld carlines skelpit him afiel',
How Jude wi's hawk met Satan i' the moss,
How Skin-flint grain't his pocks o' goud to loss;
How bloody snouts an' bloody beards war gi'en
To smith's and clowns at "Christ's kirk on the Green;"
How twa daft herds, wi' little sense or havings,
Din'd by the road, on honest Hawkie's leavings;
How Hab maist brak the priest's back wi' a rung,
How deathless Addie died, an' how he sung;
Whae'er can thae (o' mae I needna speak)
Read tenty ow'r, at his ain ingle,cheek;
An' no fin' something glowan thro' his blood,
That gars his een glowr thro' a siller flood;
May close the beuk, poor coof! and lift his spoon;
His heart's as hard's the tackets in his shoon.
Lang saxty years ha'e whiten't ow'r this powe,
An' mony a height I've seen, an' mony a howe;
But aye whan Elspa flate, or things gaed wrung,
Next to my pipe was Allie's sleekit sang;
I thought him blyther ilka time I read,
An' mony a time, wi' unto glee I've said,
That ne'er in Scotland, wad a chiel appear,
Sae droll, sae hearty, sae confoundet queer,
Sae glibly-gabbet, or sae bauld again,—
I said, I swor't—but deed I was mistaen:
Up frae Auld Reekie Fergusson begoud,
In fell auld phrase that pleases aye the crowd,
To chear their hearts whiles wi' an antrin sang,
Whilk far an' near round a' the kintry rang.
At first I thought the swankie didna ill,
Again, I glowrt to hear him better still;
Bauld, slee and sweet, his lines mair glorious grew,
Glow'd round the heart, and glanc'd the soul out-thro;
But whan I saw the freaks o' Hallow Fair,
Brought a' to view as plain as I'd been there;
An' heard, wi' teeth 'maist chatterin i' my head,
Twa kirk-yard ghaists rais'd goustly frae the dead;
Dais'd Sandy greetan for his thriftless wife;
How camscheuch Samy sud been fed in Fife;
Poor Will an' Geordy mourning for their frien';
The Farmer's Ingle, an' the cracks at e'en;
My heart cry'd out, while tears war drappan fast,
O Ramsay, Ramsay, art thou beat at last?