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May sea and land, and earth and heaven be joined, To bring th' eternal Author to my mind!

When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll,

May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul!
When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine
Adore, my heart, the majesty divine.

Grant I may ever, at the morning ray,
Open with prayer the consecrated day;
Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise,
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies:
As that advances, let my zeal improve,
And glow with ardour of consummate love ;
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun
My endless worship shall be still begun.

And, oh, permit the gloom of solemn night,
To sacred thought may forcibly invite.
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise,
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies;
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight,
And show all nature in a milder light:
How every boist'rous thought in calm subsides!
How the smoothed spirit into goodness glides!
Oh, how divine! to tread the milky-way
To the bright palace of the Lord of day;
His court admire, or for his favour sue,
Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew:
Pleased to look down, and see the world asleep
While I long vigils to its Founder keep.

FROM LOVE OF FAME.

THE love of praise, howe'er concealed by art,
Reigns more or less, and glows, in ev'ry heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modest shun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;
Now trims the midnight lamp in college-cells.
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.
Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence ;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead:

N

Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,
Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.

Allan Ramsay.

Born 1686
Died 1758.

THIS Scottish poet was born in 1686 at Leadhills, a small village in Lanarkshire, where his father held the situation of manager in a leadmine. He remained there till he was fifteen, when he was apprenticed to a wig-maker in Edinburgh. It was not till he was twenty-six years of age that he commenced writing poetry; when an address to "The Easy Club" brought him into notice. He wrote various light humorous pieces, which were sold separately at a penny each, and which became very popular; he was so successful in this mode of publishing, that he set up a shop as a regular bookseller and publisher. Various small pieces came from his pen, till, in 1726, appeared his celebrated pastoral drama, "The Gentle Shepherd." It was received with universal appro bation, not only in Scotland, but in England and Ireland. Gay and Pope both admired the poem greatly. Ramsay now attempted an adventure, never yet known in Scotland, a circulating library, which succeeded well. He also attempted to set up a theatre; but the dislike to it was so great that it was put down, and he lost a good deal of money in the speculation. In 1743 his circumstances enabled him to build a house on the Castle Hill of Edinburgh, which is called Ramsay Lodge to this day. He died there on the 7th January 1758, in the seventy-second year of his age.

LOCHABER NO MORE.

FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on weir;
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Though loudest o' thunder on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;
By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse!
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,

And without thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

ON MARRIAGE.

(From the "Gentle Shepherd.")

Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settled mind; I'm ower far gane in love.

Patie to me is dearer than my breath;

But want o' him, I dread nae other skaith.

There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een:
And then he speaks wi' sic a taking art—
His words they thirl like music through my heart.
How blithely can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave!
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,

He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill.
He is- But what need I say that or this?
I'd spend a month to tell you what he is!

In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate,
The rest seem coofs compared wi' my dear Pate.
His better sense will lang his love secure;
Ill-nature hefts in sauls that's weak and poor.

Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a',
Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw,
But little love or canty cheer can come
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die-the spate may bear away
Frae aff the holms your dainty rucks o' hay.
The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy thows.
May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ewes.
A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese,
But, or the day o' payment, breaks, and flees.
Wi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent;
It's no to gie: your merchant's to the bent.
His honour maunna want--he poinds your gear;

Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer?
Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life;
Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife.
Peggy. May sic ill-luck befa' that silly she
Wha has sic fears, for that was never me.
Let fouk bode weel, and strive to do their best;
Nae mair's required; let Heaven mak out the rest.
I've heard my honest uncle aften say,

That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray;
For the maist thrifty man could never get
A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let:
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part,
To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart:
Whate'er he wins, I'll guide wi' canny care,
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair,
For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.
A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo,
Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due;
Syne a' behind's our ain. Thus, without fear,
Wi' love and rowth, we through the warld will steer;
And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife,
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green.
Wi' dimpled cheeks and twa bewitching een,
Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg,
And her kenned kisses, hardly worth a feg?

Peggy. Nae mair o' that-Dear Jenny, to be free, There's some men constanter in love than we: Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind Has blest them wi' solidity o' mind. They'll reason calmly, and wi' kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile. Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame, It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill, I'll ha'e a' things made ready to his will; In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearthstane; And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, The seething pat's be ready to tak aff; Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board,

And serve him wi' the best we can afford;
Good-humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.

Jenny. A dish o' married love right soon grows cauld, And dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld.

Peggy. But we'll grow auld thegither, and ne'er find The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind. Bairns and their bairns mak sure a firmer tie, Than aught in love the like of us can spy. See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride. Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, Till wide their spreading branches are increast, And in their mixture now are fully blest: This shields the ither frae the 'eastlin blast,

That, in return, defends it frae the wast.

Sic as stand single-a state sae liked by you!---
Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow.

Jenny. I've done-I yield, dear lassie; I maun yield: Your better sense has fairly won the field.

THE POET'S WISH.

FRAE great Apollo, poet say,

What is thy wish, what wadst thou hae,

When thou bows at his shrine?

Not Carse o' Gowrie's fertile field,

Nor a' the flocks the Grampians yield,

That are baith sleek and fine:

Not costly things brought frae afar,

As ivory, pearl, and gems;

Nor those fair straths that watered are

With Tay and Tweed's smooth streams,
Which gentily, and daintily,

Pare down the flow'ry braes
As greatly, and quietly,
They wimple to the seas.

Whaever by his canny fate
Is master of a good estate,

That can ilk thing afford,
Let him enjoy't withoutten care,
And with the wale of curious fare
Cover his ample board.

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