Allan Ramsay Part 10

'O bonny la.s.sie, since 'tis sae, That I'm despised by thee, I hate to live; but O, I'm wae, And unco sweer to dee.

Dear Jeany, think what dowy hours I thole by your disdain: Why should a breast sae saft as yours Contain a heart of stane?'

George Withers' famous lines, 'Shall I, wasting in despaire,' are not a whit more pathetic. Then if we desire humour pure and unadulterated, where can be found a more delightful _lilt_ than 'The Widow'?

'The widow can bake, and the widow can brew, The widow can shape, and the widow can sew,[3]

And mony braw things the widow can do,-- Then have at the widow, my laddie.'

Or if you affect a dash of satire in your songs, what more to your taste than--

'Gi'e me a la.s.s wi' a lump o' land, And we for life shall gang thegither, Though daft or wise I'll ne'er demand, Or black or fair it maks na whether.

I'm aff wi' wit, and beauty will fade, And blood alane is no worth a shilling; But she that's rich, her market's made, For ilka charm aboot her's killing.'

Or if the reader desire the wells of his deepest sympathies to be stirred, what more truly pathetic than his 'Auld Lang Syne,' which supplied Burns with many of the ideas for his immortal song; or his version of 'Lochaber No More'--

'Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome wi' thee I've mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more,'

--a song than which to this day few are more popular among Scotsmen. As a song-writer Ramsay appeals to all natures and all temperaments. He was almost entirely free from the vice of poetic conventionality. He wrote what seemed to him best, undeterred by the dread of offending against poetic canons, or the principles of this, that, or the other school of poetry. He was a natural singer, not one formed by art--a singer, voicing his patriotic enthusiasm in many a lay, that for warmth of national feeling, for intense love of his species, for pa.s.sionate expression of the tenderer emotions, is little behind the best of the songs of Robert Burns. Granted that his was not the power to sweep, like Burns, or Beranger, or Heine, with masterful hand over the entire gamut of human pa.s.sions; that to him was not given, as to them, the supremely keen insight into the workings of the human heart, and the magical witchery of wedding sense to sound so indissolubly, that alter but a word in the texture of the lines and the poem is ruined. Yet, in his province, Ramsay was dowered with a gift but little less notable, that of portraying so faithfully the natural beauties of his country, and the special characteristics of his countrymen, that, in a greater degree even than Burns,--were Ramsay's songs only recognised as his, in place of being ascribed to others,--he has a right to the proud t.i.tle of Scotland's national song-writer. Not for a moment do I seek to place Ramsay on a pedestal co-equal with Burns--that were an error worse than folly; not for a moment do I seek to detract from the transcendent merit of our great national poet. But though I do not rate Burns the less, I value Ramsay the more, when I say that, had there been no Ramsay there might have been no Burns nor any Fergusson--at least, the genius of the two last named poets would not have found an adequate vehicle of expression lying readymade to their hand. Ramsay it was who virtually rendered the Scots vernacular a possible medium for the use of Burns; and this service, unconsciously rendered by the lesser genius to the greater, is generously acknowledged by the latter, who could not but be aware that, as his own star waxed higher and yet higher from the horizon line of popularity, that of his elder rival waned more and more.

Therefore his n.o.ble panegyric on Ramsay is but a tribute to his 'father in song'--

'Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream through myrtle twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell.

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie la.s.sies bleach their claes; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel'; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move.'

FOOTNOTES:

[3] p.r.o.nounced in Scots, _shoo_.

CHAPTER XII

RAMSAY'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS; CONCLUSION

Our survey is now drawing to a close. To say a word upon those miscellaneous poems that do not fall naturally into any convenient category for cla.s.sification is all that remains to be done.

Already attention has been called to the poem on _Content_, when its purpose was sketched. Though containing many pa.s.sages of no little power and beauty, yet as a whole it is heavy and uninteresting. Written during the time when the glamour of Pope's influence was upon Ramsay, it exhibits many of Pope's faults without his redeeming features. True, the characters are drawn with great vigour and distinctive individuality, but the trail of dulness lies over it, and _Content_ slumbers, with James Thomson's _chef d'oeuvre_ on _Liberty_, on the top shelf amongst the spiders. The description of the palace of the G.o.ddess Content has, however, often been praised for its vigorous scene-painting--

'Amidst the glade the sacred palace stood, The architecture not so fine as good; Nor scrimp, nor gousty, regular and plain, Plain were the columns which the roof sustain; An easy greatness in the whole was found, Where all that nature wanted did abound: But here no beds are screen'd with rich brocade, Nor fuel logs in silver grates are laid; Nor broken China bowls disturb the joy Of waiting handmaid, or the running boy; Nor in the cupboard heaps of plate are rang'd, To be with each splenetic fashion changed.'

_The Prospect of Plenty_ is another poem wherein Ramsay allows his reasoning powers to run away with him. As Chalmers remarks: 'To the chimerical hopes of inexhaustible riches from the project of the South Sea bubble, the poet now opposes the certain prospect of national wealth from the prosecution of the fisheries in the North Sea--thus judiciously pointing the attention of his countrymen to the solid fruits of patient industry, and contrasting these with the airy projects of idle speculation.' The poem points out that of industry the certain consequence is plenty, a gradual enlargement of all the comforts of society, the advancement of the useful, and the encouragement of the elegant arts, the cultivation of talents, the refinement of manners, the increase of population--all that contributes either to national prosperity or to the rational enjoyments of life. The composition and structure of the poem are less deserving of encomium than the wisdom of its precepts. Like _Content_, it is tedious and dull, yet there is one vigorous pa.s.sage in it, beginning: 'A slothful pride! a kingdom's greatest curse,' and dealing with the evils arising from the separation of the cla.s.ses, which has often been quoted. Nor must we forget _The Vision_, which in the opinion of many must rank amongst the best of Ramsay's productions. Published originally in the _Evergreen_, over the initials 'A. R. Scot,' for some time it was believed to be the work of a Scots poet, Alexander Scott, who lived in the reign of Queen Mary. But Janet Ramsay put the matter beyond a doubt before her death by declaring the poem to have been written by her father. The merits of _The Vision_ are considerable. The language is majestic and dignified, the ideas lofty, and the characters drawn with vigour and precision. Had the spelling not been so archaic, the poem would have been much more popular than it is.

For Horace, Ramsay always professed a deep admiration. Upon the style of the great Roman satirist he sought to model his 'Epistles,' which undoubtedly deserve something more than mere pa.s.sing mention. In them Ramsay endeavours to give the friend, whom at the moment he addresses, a glimpse into the pursuits with which, for the time being, he was occupying himself. Taking this for his text, he digresses into apt and amusing dissertations on any subject of public, munic.i.p.al, or social interest that might be engrossing the attention of the town. His epistles to Hamilton of Gilbertfield, to James Arbuckle, to the Earl of Dalhousie, to Mr. Aikman, to Sir W. Bennet, to William Starrat, to Joseph Burchet, to Somerville the poet, to Gay, to Clerk of Penicuik, and others, are altogether delightful--happy, cheery, humorous, gossipy productions, neither too full of fun to be frivolous, nor too didactic to be tiresome. Take, for example, his epistle to Robert Yarde of Devonshire,--how apt are his allusions, how racy his t.i.t-bits of local news! He addresses the epistle

'Frae northern mountains clad with snaw, Where whistling winds incessant blaw, In time now when the curling-stane, Slides murm'ring o'er the icy plain';

and he asks his correspondent how, under these conditions,

'What sprightly tale in verse can Yarde Expect frae a cauld Scottish bard, With brose and bannocks poorly fed, In hodden gray right hashly clad, Skelping o'er frozen hags with pingle, Picking up peats to beet his ingle, While sleet that freezes as it fa's, Theeks as with gla.s.s the divot wa's Of a laigh hut, where sax thegither Lie heads and thraws on c.r.a.ps of heather?'

--this being a humorous allusion to the prevalent idea in England at the time, that the Scots were only a little better off than the savages of the South Seas.

Finally, in his translations, or rather paraphrases, from Horace, Ramsay was exceedingly happy. He made no pretensions to accuracy in his rendering of the precise words of the text. While preserving an approximation to the ideas of his original, he changes the local atmosphere and scene, and applies Horace's lines to the district around Edinburgh, wherewith he was so familiar. With rare skill this is achieved; and while any lover of Horace can easily follow the ideas of the original, the non-cla.s.sical reader is brought face to face with a.s.sociations drawn from his own land as ill.u.s.trative, by comparison and contrast, of the text of the great Roman. Few could have executed the task with greater truth; fewer still with more felicity. Already I have cited a portion of Ramsay's rendering of Horace's famous Ode, _Vides ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte_. There are two other stanzas well worthy of quotation. Ramsay's rendering of the famous _Carpe diem_, etc., pa.s.sage is all I have s.p.a.ce for--

'Let neist day come as it thinks fit, The present minute's only ours; On pleasure let's employ our wit, And laugh at fortune's f.e.c.kless powers.'

Reference has also been made to his apt translation of the ideas contained in Horace's 1st Ode to Maecenas, by making them express his own feelings towards Lord Dalhousie. Two of his aptest renderings of the original, however, were those of Horace's 18th Ode to Quintilius Varus (_Nullam, Vare, sacra vite prius severis arborem_), which our poet renders--

'O Binny, cou'd thae fields o' thine Bear, as in Gaul, the juicy vine, How sweet the bonny grape wad shine On wa's where now Your apric.o.c.k and peaches fine Their branches bow.

Since human life is but a blink, Then why should we its short joys sink; He disna live that canna link The gla.s.s about; Whan warm'd wi' wine, like men we think, An' grow mair stout.'

The 31st Ode (B. 1.) to Apollo is thus felicitously rendered--

'Frae great Apollo, poets say, What would'st thou wish, what wadst thou hae Whan thou bows at his shrine?

Not Ca.r.s.e o' Gowrie's fertile field, Nor a' the flocks the Grampians yield That are baith sleek and fine; Not costly things, brocht frae afar, As iv'ry, pearl and gems; Nor those fair straths that watered are Wi' Tay an' Tweed's smooth streams.

Which gentily and daintily Eat down the flow'ry braes, As greatly and quietly They wimple to the seas.'

Ramsay had the misfortune never to have studied the _technique_ of his art, so that in no respect is he a master of rhythm. The majority of his longer poems, including _The Gentle Shepherd_, are written in the ordinary heroic measure, so popular last century because so easily manipulated. His songs for the most part are written in familiar metres, not calculated to puzzle any bonny singing Bess as she danced and lilted on the village green. As a metrist, therefore, Ramsay can claim little or no attention. His poetry was the spontaneous ebullition of his own feelings, and for their expression he seized upon the first measure that came to hand.

Such, then, is Ramsay! In his matchless pastoral he will ever live in the hearts of Scotsmen; and were proof needed, it would be found in the increasing numbers of pilgrims who year by year journey to Carlops to visit the scenes amongst which Peggy lived and loved. To any one save the historian and the antiquarian, the remainder of his poetry may now be of little value,--probably of none,--amidst the multifarious publications which day by day issue from the press. But by Scotsmen the memory of the gentle, genial, lovable Allan will ever be prized as that of one who, at a critical time, did more to prevent Scottish national poetry from being wholly absorbed by the mightier stream of English song than any other man save Scott. Worthy of such veneration, then, is he, both as a poet and as a man; and though the extravagant admiration wherewith he was regarded in his own day, has given place to a soberer estimate of his rank in the hierarchy of letters, yet Allan Ramsay can never be held as other than one of the most delightful, if he can no longer be rated as one of the greatest, of Scottish poets. That his immortal pastoral can ever be consigned to the limbo of oblivion is as improbable as that our posterity will forget _Tam o' Shanter_ and the _Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night_. The opinion of Robert Burns regarding the permanence of his 'poetical forebear's' fame will be cordially endorsed by every leal-hearted Scot, in whose memory the st.u.r.dy manliness of Patie and the winning beauty of Peggy are everlastingly enshrined--

'Yes! there is ane: a Scottish callan, There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan, Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, A chiel' sae clever: The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou's for ever!'