on the north side of Castle Hill, where he might spend the remainder of his days in dignified retirement. The site was selected with the taste of a poet and the judgment of a painter. It commanded a view probably not surpassed in Scotland, or indeed in Europe, extending from the mouth of the Forth on the east to the Grampians on the west, and stretching away across the green hills of Fifeshire to the north-embracing every variety of beauty, of elegance, and of grandeur. The view is now intercepted by the houses of the new town. The situation did more credit to the poet's taste than the octagon-shaped house which he built and called Ramsay Lodge, and which, from its peculiar form, was compared by some of the wags of the city to a goose-pie. The poet complaining one day of this to Lord Elibank, his lordship gayly remarked, that now seeing him in it he thought it an exceed ingly apt comparison! Fantastic though the house was, Ramsay spent the last twelve years of his life in it, except when he was abroad | with his friends, in a state of philosophic ease which few literary men are able to attain. He seems, however, not to have abandoned his business until 1755, an event which he did not long survive. An epistle which he wrote this year, "full of wise saws and modern instances," gives his determination on the subject, and a more graphic picture of himself than could be drawn by any other person:

"Tho' born to no ae inch of ground,

I keep my conscience white and sound;
And though I ne'er was a rich keeper,
To make that up I live the cheaper;
By this ae knack I've made a shift
To drive ambitious care adrift;
And now in years and sense grown auld,
In ease I like my limbs to fauld.
Debts I abhor, and plan to be
From shackling trade and dangers free;
That I may, loosed frae care and strife,
With calmness view the edge of life;
And when a full ripe age shall crave,
Slide easily into my grave;
Now seventy years are o'er my head,
And thirty more may lay me dead."

is one of the "green and sunny spots" in literary biography. He was one of the poets to whom, in a pecuniary point of view, poetry had been really a blessing, and who could combine poetic pursuits with those of an ordinary business. He possessed that turn of mind which Hume says it is more happy to possess than to be born to an estate of ten thousand a year-a disposition always to see the favourable side of things. The merits of the "Gentle Shepherd" are of the highest order, and will carry Ramsay's name down through the coming centuries. It was his hope that he might 'be classed with Tasso and Guarini," and the station is one which posterity has not denied to the Edinburgh bookseller. Ramsay thought highly of his "Fables," which are little, if at all, inferior to his comedy, evincing great skill in story-telling, and abounding in point and humour. As a song-writer he has many superiors, although some of his lyrics are justly admired, and enjoy a great degree of popularity. "Bessie Bell and Mary Gray" and

the Yellow-haired Laddie" are both beautiful productions; "Lochaber no more" is a strain of manly feeling and unaffected pathos and the "Lass of Patie's Mill" an exquisit composition. A noble marble statue of Ram say, at whose lamp Burns lighted his brillian torch, has been erected in Princes Street Gar dens, Edinburgh, near those of his brothe poets Sir Walter Scott and John Wilson.

The readers of this sketch of Ramsay, next Burns the most distinguished national poet Scotland, may be interested in knowing tha the poet's son Allan attained considerable em nence as an artist, and in 1767 was appoint portrait-painter to the king and queen. corresponded with Voltaire and Rousseau, bo of whom he visited when abroad; and 1 letters are said to have been elegant and witt

I

Ramsay, in short," remarks Allan Cunnin ham, "led the life of an elegant accomplish man of the world and public favourite." was frequently of Dr. Johnson's parties, w said of him, "You will not find a man whose conversation there is more instructi more information and elegance, than in R say's." He died in 1784. John Ramsay son of the painter, and grandson of the p. entered the British army, and rose to the r of major-general.

ACT FIRST.-SCENE I.

Beneath the south side of a craigy bield,
Where crystal springs their halesome waters yield,
Twa youthfu' shepherds on the gowans lay,
Tenting their flocks ae bonnie morn of May.
Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring;
But blyther Patie likes to laugh an' sing.

PATIE and ROGER.

SANG I.

Tune-"The wawking o' the faulds"

Patie.

My Peggy is a young thing,
Just entered in her teens,
Fair as the day, an' sweet as May,
Fair as the day, an' always gay.
My Peggy is a young thing,
An' I'm no very auld,
Yet weel I like to meet her
At the wawking o' the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly
Whene'er we meet alane,

I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld,
But she gars a' my spirits glow,
At wawking o' the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly
Whene'er I whisper love,
That I look down on a' the town,
That I look down upon a crown.

1 Burns, with somewhat too much extravagance, pro

nounced the "Gentle Shepherd" "the most glorious

poem ever written;" and Professor Wilson has said, The eritus was a pleasant pastoral, and 'Sicilia' sees hit among the stars. But all his dear idyls together are not equal in worth to the single 'Gentle Shepherd."" Thomas Campbell remarked, "Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of the Gentle Shepherd' is engraven on the memory of its native country. Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delight and solace of the peasantry whom it describes."-ED.

My Peggy smiles sac kindly,

It mak's me blyth an' bauld,
An' naething gie's me sic delight
As wawking o' the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly
When on my pipe I play,

By a' the rest it is confest,

By a' the rest, that she sings best.

My Peggy sings sae saftly,

An' in her sangs are tauld,

Wi' innocence, the wale o' sense,

At wawking o' the fauld.

Pat. This sunny morn, Roger, cheers my blood, An' puts a' nature in a jovial mood.

How heartsome 'tis to see the rising plants!
To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants!
How halesome it's to snuff the cauler air,

An' a' the sweets it bears, when void o' care!
What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane?
Tell me the cause o' thy ill-seasoned pain.

Rog. I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate!
I'm born to strive wi' hardships sad an' great.
Tempests may cease to jaw the rowin' flood,
Corbies an' tods to grien for lambkins' blood;
But I, opprest wi' never-ending grief,
Maun ay despair o' lighting on relief.

Pat. The bees shall loth the flower, an' quit

the hive,

The saughs on boggy ground shall cease to thrive, Ere scornfu' queans, or loss o' warldly gear, Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear.

Rog. Sae might I say; but it's no easy done By ane whase saul's sae sadly out o' tune. You ha'e sae saft a voice, and slid a tongue, That you're the darling o' baith auld an' young. If I but ettle at a sang, or speak, They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek; An' jeer me hameward frae the lone or bught, While I'm confused wi' mony a vexing thought. Yet I am tall, an' as well built as thee, Nor mair unlikely to a lass's e'e. For ilka sheep ye ha'e, I'll number ten, An' should, as ane may think, come farer ben. Pat. But aiblins, neibour, ye ha'e not a heart, An' downie cithly wi' your cunzie part.

If that be true, what signifies your gear?
A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care.
Rog. My byre tumbled, nine braw nowt were
smoored,

Three elf-shot were, yet I these ills endured:
In winter last my cares were very sma',

Though scores o' wathers perished in the snaw.
Pat. Were your bien rooms as thinly stock'd

as mine,

Less you wad loss, and less you wad repine.
He that has just enough can soundly sleep:
The o'ercome only fashes fouk to keep.

Rog. May plenty flow upon thee for a cross,
That thou may'st thole the pangs o' mony a loss!
O may'st thou dote on some fair paughty wench,
That ne'er will lowt thy lowan drowth to quench,
Till, bris'd beneath the burden, thou cry dool,
An' own that ane may fret that is nae fool!
Pat. Sax good fat lambs, I sald them ilka clute
At the West-port, an' bought a winsome flute,
O' plum-tree made, wi' ivory virls round;
A dainty whistle, wi' a pleasant sound:
I'll be mair cantie wi't, an' ne'er cry dool,
Than you, wi' a' your cash, ye dowie fool!

Rog. Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast,
Some other thing lies heavier at my breast:
I dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night,
That gars my flesh a' creep yet wi' the fright.
Pat. Now, to a friend, how silly's this pretence,
To ane wha you an' a' your secrets kens!
Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide
Your weel-seen love, and dorty Jenny's pride:
Tak' courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell,
An' safely think nane kens them but yoursel.
Rog. Indeed now, Patie, ye hae guessed owre
true,

An' there is naething I'll keep up frae you;
Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint,
To speak but till her I dare hardly mint.
In ilka place she jeers me air an' late,
An' gars me look bombazed, an' unco blate.
But yesterday I met her yont a knowe,
She fled as frae a shelly-coated cow:
She Bauldy lo'es, Bauldy that drives the car,
But gecks at me, an' says I smell o' tar.

Pat. But Bauldy loes no her, right weel I wat;
He sighs for Neps:-sae that may stand for that.
Rog. I wish I cou'dna lo'e her- but, in vain,
I still maun do't, an' thole her proud disdain.
My Bawty is a cur I dearly like,

E'en while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumbtyke;
If I had filled a nook within her breast,

She wad ha'e shawn mair kindness to my beast.
When I begin to tune my stock an' horn,
Wi' a' her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn.
Last night I played (ye never heard sic spite),
"O'er Bogie" was the spring, an' her delyte;
Yet, tauntingly, she at her cousin speer'd,
Gif she could tell what tune I play'd, an' sneer'd.—
Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care,
I'll break my reed, an' never whistle mair.

Pat. E'en do sae, Roger; wha can help misluck, Saebiens she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck? Yonder's a craig; since ye ha'e tint a' houp, Gae till't your ways, an' tak' the lover's loup. Rog. I need na mak' sic speed my blood to spill I'll warrant death come soon eneugh a-will. Pat. Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging

way;

Seem careless, there's my hand ye'll win the day
Hear how I serv'd my lass I lo'e as weel
As ye do Jenny, an' wi' heart as leal.
Last morning I was gye an' early out,
Upon a dyke I lean'd glow'ring about;
I saw my Meg come linkin' o'er the lee;
I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw no me;
For yet the sun was wading through the mist,
An' she was closs upon me ere she wist.
Her coats were kiltit, an' did sweetly shaw
Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than sna
Her cockernony snooded up fu' sleek,
Her haffet-locks hang wavin' on her cheek;
Her cheeks sae ruddy, an' her een sae clear;
An' oh! her mouth's like ony hinny pear.
Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean
As she came skiffin' o'er the dewy green.
Blythsome, I cried, "My bonny Meg, come he
I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer;
But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew."
She scoured awa, an' said, "What's that to you
"Than fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, an' e'en's ye lik
I careless cried, an' lap in o'er the dyke.
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack,
She came wi' a right thieveless errand back;
Misca'd me first, then bade me hound my d
To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the b
I leugh, an sae did she: then wi' great haste
I clasp'd my arms about her neck an' waist;
About her yielding waist, an' took a fouth
O' sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth.
While hard an' fast I held her in my grips,
My very saul came lowping to my lips.
Sair, sair she flate wi' me 'tween ilka smack,
But weel I ken'd she meant no as she spak'.
Dear Roger, when your joe puts on her gloo
Do ye sae too, an' never fash your thumb.
Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her n
Gae woo anither, an' she'll gang clean wood

SANG II.

Tune-"Fy gar rub her o'er wi' strae." Dear Roger, if your Jenny geck,

An' answer kindness wi' a slight, Seem unconcern'd at her neglect;

For women in a man delight, But them despise wha's soon defeat, An' wi' a simple face gi'es way To a repulse; then be nae blate, Push bauldly on, an' win the day. When maidens, innocently young, Say aften what they never mean,

Ne'er mind their pretty lying tongue,
But tent the language o' their een:
If these agree, an' she persist

To answer a' your love wi' hate,
Seek elsewhere to be better blest,

An' let her sigh when it's too late.

Rog. Kind Patie, now fair-fa' your honest heart,
Ye're ay sae cadgy, an' ha'e sic an' art
To hearten ane: for now, as clean's a leek,
Ye've cherished me since ye began to speak.
Sae, for your pains, I'll make you a propine
(My mither, rest her siul! she made it fine);
A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo',
Scarlet an' green the sets, the borders blue:
Wi' spraings like gowd an' siller crossed wi' black;
I never had it yet upon my back.
Weel are you wordy o't, wha ha'e sae kind
Redd up my ravell'd doubts, an' clear'd my mind.
Pat. Weel, haud ye there-an' since ye've
frankly made

To me a present o' your braw new plaid,
My flute be yours; an' she too that's sae nice,
Shall come o-will, gif ye'll tak' my advice.

Rog. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't;
But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't.
Now tak' it out, an' gie's a bonny spring;
For I'm in tift to hear you play an' sing.

Pat. But first we'll tak' a turn up to the height,
An' see gif a' our flocks be feeding right;
By that time bannocks, an' a shave o' cheese,
Will mak' a breakfast that a laird might please;
Might please the daintiest gabs, were they sae
wise

To season meat wi' health, instead o' spice. When we ha'e tane the grace-drink at the well, "'ll whistle fine, and sing t'ye like mysel. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A flowrie howm, between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses use to wash an' spread their claiths;
A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground,
Its channel peebles, shining, smooth, an' round:
Here view twa barefoot beauties, clean an' clear;
First please your eye, next gratify your ear:
While Jenny what she wishes discommends,
An' Meg, wi' better sense, true love defends.

PEGGY and JENNY.

Jen. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this

green,

This shining day will bleach our linen clean;
The water's clear, the lift unclouded blue,
Will mak' them like a lily wet wi' dew.

Peg. Gae farder up the burn to Habbie's How,
Where a' the sweets o' spring an' summer grow:
Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin,
The water fa's an' mak's a singin' din;
A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass,
Kisses, wi' easy whirls, the bordering grass.
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,

There wash oursels-it's healthfu' now in May, An' sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.

Jen. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll-ye say,

Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae,
An' see us sae? that jeering fallow Pate
Wad taunting say, Haith, lasses, ye're no blate.

Peg. We're far frae ony road, an' out o' sight;
The lads they're feeding far beyont the height.
But tell me now, dear Jenny (we're our lane),
What gars ye plague your wooer wi' disdain?
The neibours a' tent this as weel as I,
That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by.
What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa,
He's worthy you the best day e'er ye saw.

Jen. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; A herd mair sheepish yet I never ken'd. He kaims his hair, indeed, an' gaes right snug, Wi' ribbon knots at his blue bonnet lug, Whilk pensylie he wears a-thought a-jee, An' spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee; He falds his o'erlay down his breast wi' care, An' few gang trigger to the kirk or fair; For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, Except, How d'ye?-or, There's a bonny day. Peg. Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting

pride,

Hatred for love is unco sair to bide;
But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld:
What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld?
Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat,
That for some feckless whim will orp an' greet:
The lave laugh at it, till the dinner's past;
An' syne the fool thing is obliged to fast,
Or scart anither's leavings at the last.

SANG III.

Tune "Polwart on the green."

The dorty will repent,

If lovers' hearts grow cauld; An' nane her smiles will tent,

Soon as her face looks auld.

The dawted bairn thus tak's the pet,
Nor eats, though hunger crave;
Whimpers an' tarrows at its meat,
An's laught at by the lave.

They jest it till the dinner's past;
Thus, by itself abused,
The fool thing is obliged to fast,

Or eat what they've refused.

Fy! Jenny, think, an' dinna sit your time.
Jen. I never thocht a single life a crime.
Peg. Nor I:- but love in whispers lets us ken,
That men were made for us, an' we for men.
Jen. If Roger is my joe, he kens himsel,
For sic a tale I never heard him tell.

He glow'rs an' sighs, an' I can guess the cause,
But wha's obliged tonell his hums an' haws?

Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain,
I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again.
They're fools that slavery like, an' may be free;
The chiels may a' knit up themsels for me.
Peg. Be doing your wa's; for me, I ha'e a mind
To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.

Jen. Hech, lass! how can ye lo'e that rattleskull?

A very deil, that ay maun ha'e his will;
We'll soon hear tell, what a poor fechting life
You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man an' wife.
Peg. I'll rin the risk, nor ha'e I ony fear,
But rather think ilk langsome day a year,
Till I wi' pleasure mount my bridal-bed,
Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head.
There we may kiss as lang as kissing's gude,
An' what we do, there's nane dar ca' it rude.
He's get his will: why no? it's good my part
To gi'e him that, an' he'll gi'e me his heart.

Jen. He may indeed, for ten or fifteen days,
Mak' meikle o' ye, wi' an unco fraise,
An' daut ye baith afore fouk an' your lane;
But soon as his newfangleness is gane,
He'll look upon you as his tether-stake,
An' think he's tint his freedom for your sake.
Instead then o' lang days o' sweet delight,
Ae day be dumb, an' a' the neist he'll flyte:
An' may be, in his barlickhoods, ne'er stick
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.

SANG IV.

Tune-O, dear mither, what shall I do?"

O, dear Peggy, love's beguiling,
We ought not to trust his smiling;
Better far to do as I do,
Lest a harder luck betide you.
Lasses when their fancy's carried,
Think of nought but to be married:
Running to a life, destroys
Hartsome, free, an' youthfu' joys.

SANG V.

Tune-"How can I be sad on my wedding-day?"

How shall I be sad when a husband I ha'e,
That has better sense than ony of thae
Sour weak silly fellows, that study, like fools
To sink their ain joy, and mak' their wive
snools.

The man who is prudent ne'er lightlies his wif
Or wi' dull reproaches encourages strife;
He praises her virtues, and ne'er will abuse
Her for a sma' failing, but find an excuse.

Jen. Hey, bonny lass o' Branksome! or't be lan
Your witty Pate will put you in a sang.
O'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride;
Syne whinging getts about your ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that wi' fasheous din:
To mak' them braws then ye maun toil an' spi
Ae wean fa's sick, ane scads itsel wi' broe,
Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe;
The Deil gaes o'er Jock Wabster, hame grows h
An' Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tel
Peg. Yes, it's a hartsome thing to be a wife
When round the ingle-edge young sprouts

rife.

Gif I'm sae happy, I shall ha'e delight
To hear their little plaints, an' keep them rig
Wow! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be,
Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee;
When a' they ettle at their greatest wish,
Is to be made o', an' obtain a kiss?
Can there be toil in tenting day an' night
The like o' them, when love mak's care delig
Jen. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a
Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should beg
draw;

But little love or canty cheer can come
Frae duddy doublets, an' a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die; the spate may bear aw
Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks o' hay
The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy th

pith to move

My settled mind; I'm o'er 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:
An' then he speaks wi' sic a taking art,
His words they thirl like music through my heart.
How blythely can he sport, an' gently rave,
An' 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 ye 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 an' poor.

A dyvour buys your butter, woo', an' cheese But, or the day o' payment, breaks, an' flee Wi' glooman brow, the laird seeks in his re It's not to gi'e; your merchant's to the ben His honour mauna want; he poinds your go Syne, driven frae house an' hald, where w steer?

Dear Meg, be wise, an' live a single life; Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife.

Peg. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. Let fouk bode weel, an' strive to do their b Nae mair's required; let Heaven mak' ou

rest.

I've heard my honest uncle aften say,
That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous
For the maist thrifty man could never get
A weel-stored room, unless his wife wad le