My lay shall merit your regard,
I'll thank the gods for my reward,
And smile at ilka fop.

ODE to the Memory of Mrs FORBES, the late Lady New Hall.

Written in 1728,

The same year in which his second quarto issued from the press with the Pastoral Comedy completed, and the first scene reprinted as part of the drama, having a Note, by Ramsay, subjoined to it, informing his readers that he had, now, " carried the Pastoral the length of five acts at the desire of some persons of distinction.”

An life! thou short uncertain blaze,
Scarce worthy to be wish'd or lov'd,
When by strict death so many ways
So soon the sweetest are remov'd.

In prime of life and lovely glow,
The dear Brucina must submit;
Nor could ward off the fatal blow,

With every beauty, grace, and wit.

If outward charms, and temper sweet,
The cheerful smile, and thought sublime,
Could have preserv'd, she ne'er had met

Her soul glanced with each heavenly ray,

Her form with all those beauties fair, For which young brides and mothers pray, And wish'd for to their infant care.

Sour spleen or anger, passion rude,
These opposites to peace and heaven,
Ne'er paled her cheek, or fired her blood:
Her mind was ever calm and even.

Come, fairest nymphs, and gentle swains,
Give loose to tears of tender love;
Strew fragrant flowers on her remains,
While sighing round her grave you move.

In mournful notes your pain express,
While with reflection you run o'er,
How excellent, how good she was!
She was! alas! but is no more!

Yet piously correct your moan,

And raise religious thoughts on high,

After her spotless soul, that's gone.

To joys that ne'er can fade or die.

The ADDRESS of ALLAN RAMSAY to the Honourable DUNCAN FORBES of Culloden, Lord President of the Session, and all our other Judges, who are careful of the honour of the government, and the property of the subject.

Written in 1737,

On the suppression of his Playhouse, being the last of his poems.

Humbly means and shaws,

To you, my Lords, whase elevation,
Makes you the wardens of the nation,
While you with equal justice stand,
With Lawtie's balance in your hand;
you, whase penetrating skill

To

Can eithly redd the good frae ill,

And ken them well whase fair behaviour

Deserve reward and royal favour,

As like you do, these stonkerd fellows,
Wha merit naithing but the gallows:
with humble bow, your bard,

To you,
Whase greatest brag is your regard,
Begs leave to lay his case before ye,

And for an outgate to implore ye.

Last year, my Lords, nae farrer gane,

A costly wark was undertane
By me, wha had not the least dread

A playhouse new, at vast expence,
To be a large, yet bein defence,

In winter nights, 'gainst wind and weet,
To ward frae cauld the lasses sweet,
While they with bonny smiles attended,
To have their little failures mended;
Where satire, striving still to free them,
Hauds out his glass to let them see them.
Here, under rules of right decorum,
By placing consequence before 'em,
I kept our troop, by pith of reason,
Frae bawdy, atheism, and treason ;
And only preach'd, frae moral fable,
The best instruction they were able;
While they by doctrine linsy-woolsy,
Set aff the utile with dulce.

And shall the man to whom this task falls,

Suffer amang confounded rascals,

That, like vile adders, dart their stings,
And fear nae God, nor honour kings?
Shall I, wha for a tract of years
Have sung to commons and to peers,
And got the general approbation
Of all within the British nation,

At last be twin'd of all my hopes
By them who wont to be my props?
Be made a loser and engage

With troubles in declining age;

While wights, to whom my credit stands For sums, make sour and thrawn demands?

Shall London have its houses twa,
And we be doom'd to 've nane ava?
Is our metrop❜lis, anes the place,
Where longsyne dwelt the royal race
Of Fergus, this gate dwindled down
T' a level with ilk clachan town,
While thus she suffers by the subversion
Of her maist rational diversion?

When ice and snaw o'ercleads the isle, Wha now will think it worth their while To leave their gowsty country bowers, For the anes blythsome Edinburgh towers, Where there's no glee to give delight, And ward frae spleen the langsome night? For which they'll now have nae relief, But sonk at hame, and cleck mischief.

Is there ought better than the stage
To mend the follies of the age,
If manag'd as it ought to be,
Frae ilka vice and blaidry free?

Which may be done with perfect ease,
And nought be heard that shall displease,