THE LAUREL DISPUTED;
OR, THE MERITS OF ALLAN RAMSAY AND ROBERT FERGUSSON CONTRASTED.
Ae night,—the lift was skinklan a' wi' starns,—
I cross'd the burn an' dauner't thro' the cairns,
Down to auld Andrew Ralston's o' Craig-neuk,
To hear his thoughts, as he had seen the beuk:
(Andrew's a gay droll haun—ye'll aiblins ken him?—
It maksna, I had hecht some sangs to len' him,)
"Aweel," quo' I, as soon's I reek't the hallan,
"What think ye now o' our bit Embrugh callan?"
"Saf's man," quo' Andrew, "yon's an unco chiel!
He surely has some dealings wi' the deil!
There's no a turn that ony o' us can work at,
At hame, or yet a-fiel', at kirk or market;
But he describ'st as paukily an' fell,
As gin he'd been a kintra man himsel'.
Yestreen I'm sure, beside our auld gudewife,
I never leugh as meikle a' my life,
To read the King's Birth-day's fell hurry-burry,
How draigl't pussey flies about like fury;
Faith, I ken that's a fact.—The last birth-day,
As I stood glouring up an' down the way,
A dead cat's guts, before I cou'd suspect,
Harl't thro the dirt, cam clash about my neck;
An' while wi' baith my hauns, frae 'bout I tok it,
Wi' perfect stink, I thought I wad a bocket.
His stories, too, are tell't sae sleek an' baul',
Ilk oily word rins jinking thro' the saul;
What he describes, before your een ye see't,
As plain an' lively as ye see that peat.
It's my opinion, John, that this young fallow,
Excels them a', an' beats auld Allan hallow;
An' shows at twenty-twa, as great a giftie
For painting just, as Allan did at fifty.
You, Mr. President, ken weel yersel',
Better by far than kintra-fouks can tell,
That they wha reach the gleg, auld-farrant art,
In verse to melt, an' soothe, an' mend the heart;
To raise up joy, or rage, or courage keen,
And gar ilk passion sparkle in our een;
Sic chiels (whare'er they hae their ha' or hame),
Are true blue-bards, and wordy o' the name.
Sud ane o' thae, by lang experience, man
To spin out tales frae mony a pawky plan,
An' sets a' laughing at his blauds o' rhyme,
Wi' sangs aft polish'd by the haun o' Time;
And should some stripling, still mair light o' heart,
A livelier humour to his cracks impart;
Wi' careless pencil draw, yet gar us stare
To see our ain fire-sides and meadows there;
To see our thoughts, our hearts, our follies drawn,
And nature's sel' fresh starting frae his haun;
Wad mony words, or speeches lang, be needed
To tell whase rhymes war best, wha clearest-headed?
Sits there within the four wa's o' this house,
Ae chield o' taste, droll, reprobate, or douse;
Whase blessed lugs hae heard young Rob himsel',
(Light as the lamb that dances on the dell,)
Lay aff his auld Scots crack wi' pawky glee,
And seen the fire that darted frae his ee?
O let him speak ! 0 let him try t' impart
The joys that than gush'd headlang on his heart,
Whan ilka line, and ilka lang-syne glowr,
Set faes an' friends and Pantheons in a roar!
Did e'er auld Scotland fin' a nobler pride
Through a' her veins, and glowan bosom glide,
Than when her Muses' dear young fav'rite bard,
Wi' her hale strength o' wit and fancy fir'd,
Raise frae the thrang, and kin'ling at the sound,
Spread mirth, conviction, truth and rapture round?