have helped Scotland for ever to take pride in its heather, and its
braes, and its bonny rivers, and be ashamed of no honest truth in high
estate or in low; an incalculable blessing. Ramsay is entitled not
only to the designation we have given him, but in some respects is the
best pastoral writer in the world. There are, in truth, two sorts of
genuine pastoral--the high ideal of Fletcher and Milton, which is
justly to be considered the more poetical,--and the homely ideal, as
set forth by Allan Ramsay and some of the Idyls of Theocritus, and
which gives us such feelings of nature and passion as poetical rustics
not only can, but have entertained and eloquently described. And we
think the Gentle Shepherd, 'in some respects,' the best pastoral that
ever was written, not because it has anything, in a poetical point of
view, to compare with Fletcher and Milton, but because there is, upon
the whole, more faith and more love in it, and because the kind of
idealized truth which it undertakes to represent, is delivered in a
more corresponding and satisfactory form than in any other entire
pastoral drama. In fact, the Gentle Shepherd has no alloy whatsoever
to its pretensions, _such as they are_--no failure in plot, language,
or character--nothing answering to the coldness and irrelevances of
'Comus,' nor to the offensive and untrue violations of decorum in the
'Wanton Shepherdess' of Fletcher's pastoral, and the pedantic and
ostentatious chastity of his Faithful one. It is a pure, healthy,
natural, and (of its kind) perfect plant, sprung out of an unluxuriant
but not ungenial soil; not hung with the beauty and fragrance of the
productions of the higher regions of Parnassus; not waited upon by
spirits and enchanted music; a dog-rose, if you will; say rather, a
rose in a cottage-garden, dabbled with the morning dew, and plucked by
an honest lover to give to his mistress.
"Allan Ramsay's poem is not only a probable and pleasing story,
containing charming pictures, much knowledge of life, and a good deal
of quiet humour, but in some respects it may be called classical, if
by classical is meant ease, precision, and unsuperfluousness of style.
Ramsay's diction is singularly straightforward, seldom needing the
assistance of inversions; and he rarely says anything for the purpose
of 'filling up;'--two freedoms from defect the reverse of vulgar and
commonplace; nay, the reverse of a great deal of what pretends to be
fine writing, and is received as such. We confess we never tire of
dipping into it, 'on and off,' any more than into Fletcher or Milton,
or into Theocritus himself, who, for the union of something higher
with true pastoral, is unrivalled in short pieces. The Gentle Shepherd
is not a forest, nor a mountain-side, nor Arcady; but it is a field
full of daisies, with a brook in it, and a cottage 'at the sunny end;'
and this we take to be no mean thing, either in the real or the ideal
world. Our Jar of Honey may well lie for a few moments among its
heather, albeit filled with Hybla. There are bees, 'look you,' in
Habbie's How. Theocritus and Allan shake hands over a shepherd's pipe.
Take the beginning of Scene ii., Act i., both for description and
dialogue:--
'A flowrie howm between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses use to wash and spread their claiths,
_A trotting burnie wimpling thro' the ground,
Its channel peebles, shining, smooth, and round_;
Here view _twa barefoot beauties_ clean and clear;
First please your eye, next gratify your ear,
While Jenny _what she wishes discommends_,
And Meg, with better sense true love defends.
JENNY.
Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green,
The shining day will bleech our linen clean;
The water's clear, the lift unclouded blew,
Will make them _like a lilly wet with dew_.
PEGGY.
Go farer up the burn to Habby's How,
Where a' the sweets of spring and summer grow;
_Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin
The water fa's, and makes a singand din;
A pool breast-deep beneath, as clear as glass,
Kisses with easy whirles the bordring grass_:
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool,
There wash our sells--'tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.'
"This is an out-door picture. Here is an in-door one quite as
good--nay, better.
'_While Peggy laces up her bosom fair,
With a blew snood Jenny binds up her hair_;
Glaud by his morning ingle takes a beek,
_The rising sun shines motty thro' the reek,
A pipe his mouth; the lasses please his een,
And now and than his joke maun interveen._'
"We would quote, if we could--only it might not look so proper, when
isolated--the whole song at the close of Act the Second. The first
line of it alone is worth all Pope's pastorals put together, and (we
were going to add) half of those of Virgil; but we reverence too much
the great follower of the Greeks, and true lover of the country. There
is more sentiment, and equal nature, in the song at the end of Act the
Fourth. Peggy is taking leave of her lover, who is going abroad:--
At setting day, and rising morn,
With soul that still shall love thee,
I'll ask of Heaven thy safe return,
With all that can improve thee.
I'll visit aft the Birken Bush,
Where first thou kindly told me
Sweet tales of love, _and hid my blush,
Whilst round thou didst enfold me_.
'To all our haunts I will repair,
By Greenwood-shaw or fountain;
Or where the summer-day I'd share
With thee upon yon mountain.
There will I tell the trees and flowers,
From thoughts unfeign'd and tender,
_By vows_ you're mine, _by love_ is yours
A heart which cannot wander.'
"The charming and so (to speak) natural flattery of the loving
delicacy of this distinction--
'_By vows_ you're mine, _by love_ is yours,'
was never surpassed by a passion the most refined. It reminds us of a
like passage in the anonymous words (Shakspeare might have written
them) of the fine old English madrigal by Ford, 'Since first I saw
your face.' Perhaps Ford himself wrote them; for the author of that
music had sentiment enough in him for anything. The passage we allude
to is--
'What, I that _loved_, and you that _liked_,
Shall _we_ begin to wrangle?'
The highest refinement of the heart, though too rare in most classes,
is luckily to be found in all; and hence it is, that certain meetings
of extremes in lovers of different ranks in life are not always to be
attributed either to a failure of taste on the one side, or unsuitable
pretensions on the other. Scotish dukes have been known to meet with
real Gentle-Shepherd heroines; and everybody knows the story of a
lowly Countess of Exeter, who was too sensitive to survive the
disclosure of the rank to which her lover had raised her."[53]
[Footnote 53: A Jar of Honey from Mount Hybla, by L. Hunt, p. 106.
London, 1848.]
ANECDOTE OF LADY STRANGE.
During nearly twenty years of the latter part of Ramsay's life, "he
continued occasionally to write epistles in verse, and other short
pieces, as he had done before, for the entertainment of his private
friends. When urged by some of them to give some more of his works to
the press, he said that he was more inclined, if it were in his power,
to recall much of what he had already written, and that if half his
printed books were burnt, the other half, like the Sybil's books,
would become more valuable by it."[54] Still more deeply was this
feeling entertained by his son, who hesitated not to express it in a
manner more emphatic than respectful to his father's memory. On one
occasion, in London, and in the house of Lady Strange, widow of the
celebrated engraver of that name--a lady whose kindness to her
countrymen and predilection for Scotland will long be remembered--he
is said to have declared that if he could purchase every copy of his
father's writings, even at the cost of a thousand pounds, he would
commit them to the flames. "Indeed, sir," replied the lady,
misunderstanding his meaning, "then let me tell you that if you could,
and should do so, your labour would be lost, for I can," says she,
"repeat from memory _every word_ of the Gentle Shepherd, and were you
to consume every copy of it, I would write out that matchless poem
with my own hand, and cause it to be printed at my own charges."[55]
[Footnote 54: Lives of Eminent Scotsmen. London, 1821.]
[Footnote 55: We are indebted for this anecdote to the venerable
George Thomson, Esq., the correspondent of Burns and publisher of his
finest songs, now living and in the 93d year of his age, who had it
from--Macgowan, Esq., a gentleman formerly well known in this city, as
having been told him by Lady Strange herself.
[Ramsay's Poems. Ed. 1850]
LIST OF ALLAN RAMSAY'S WORKS.
POEMS.--Edinburgh, 1721-28. 4to. 2 vols. First collective edition.
Many other editions. _See Preface, page_ ix.
THE EVERGREEN, being a Collection of Scots Poems, wrote by the
Ingenious before 1600. Edinburgh, 1724. 16mo. 2 vols. Reprinted,
1761 and 1824.
THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Edinburgh, 1724, &c.--4 vols. 12mo. A
well-known collection of Songs, English as well as Scotish, by
several hands. Many other editions.
TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY--circa 1726. "Music for Allan Ramsay's
collection of Scots Songs: Set by Alexander Stuart, and engraved
by R. Cooper, vol. First. Edinburgh; printed and sold by Allan
Ramsay."
This is a small oblong volume of 156 pages, divided into six parts,
and contains the music of seventy-one Songs, selected from the
first volume of the Tea-Table Miscellany, printed in 1724. It is
very scarce, and no second volume ever appeared.
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, a Scots Pastoral Comedy. Edinburgh, 1725. First
edition. Numerous other editions. _See Preface, page_ x.
Included in all the collective editions of the Poems.
_Translations._--By Cornelius Vanderstop. London, 1777. 8vo.--By W.
Ward. London, 1785. 8vo.--By Margaret Turner. London, 1790. 8vo.
FABLES.--A Collection of thirty Fables. Edinburgh, 1730. First
collective edition. The greater part of these were included in
the quarto of 1728, and are to be found in all the more recent
editions of the Poems.
PROVERBS.--A Collection of Scots Proverbs. Edinburgh, 1737. 12mo.
Numerous editions.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
SUSANNA,
_COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUN_.[56]
MADAM,
The love of approbation, and a desire to please the best, have ever
encouraged the Poets to finish their designs with chearfulness. But,
conscious of their own inability to oppose a storm of spleen and
haughty ill-nature, it is generally an ingenious custom amongst them
to chuse some honourable shade.
Wherefore, I beg leave to put my Pastoral under your Ladyship's
protection. If my Patroness says, the Shepherds speak as they ought,
and that there are several natural flowers that beautify the rural
wild, I shall have good reason to think myself safe from the awkward
censure of some pretending judges that condemn before examination.
[Footnote 56: "This is the same dignified lady, to whom, at the age of
eighty-five, Johnson, and Boswell, offered their homage; whose powers
of pleasing continued so resplendent as to charm the fastidious sage
into a declaration that, in visiting such a woman, he had spent his
day well. This celebrated patroness of poets was the accomplished
daughter of the noble house of Kennedy, who having married, in 1708,
Alexander the Earl of Eglinton, by whom she had three sons, two of
whom succeeded to the earldom, and seven daughters who married into
honourable families, died on the 18th of March, 1780, at the
patriarchal age of ninety-one."--_Geo. Chalmers' Life of Ramsay, page
xxxiv., edition of 1800._]
I am sure of vast numbers that will crowd into your Ladyship's
opinion, and think it their honour to agree in their sentiments with
the Countess of EGLINTOUN, whose penetration, superior wit, and sound
judgment, shines with an uncommon lustre, while accompanied with the
diviner charms of goodness and equality of mind.
If it were not for offending only your Ladyship, here, Madam, I might
give the fullest liberty to my muse to delineate the finest of women,
by drawing your Ladyship's character, and be in no hazard of being
deemed a flatterer; since flattery lyes not in paying what's due to
merit, but in praises misplaced.
Were I to begin with your Ladyship's honourable birth and alliance,
the field's ample, and presents us with numberless great and good
Patriots that have dignified the names of KENNEDY and MONTGOMERY: Be
that the care of the herauld and historian. 'Tis personal merit, and
the heavenly sweetness of the fair, that inspire the tuneful lays.
Here every Lesbia must be excepted, whose tongues give liberty to the
slaves, which their eyes had made captives. Such may be flatter'd; but
your Ladyship justly claims our admiration and profoundest respect:
for, whilst you are possest of every outward charm in the most perfect
degree, the never-fading beauties of wisdom and piety, which adorn
your Ladyship's mind, command devotion.
"All this is very true," cries one of better sense than good nature,
"but what occasion have you to tell us the sun shines, when we have
the use of our eyes, and feel his influence?"--Very true; but I have
the liberty to use the Poet's privilege, which is, "To speak what
every body thinks." Indeed, there might be some strength in the
reflection, if the Idalian registers were of as short duration as
life: but the bard, who fondly hopes immortality, has a certain
praise-worthy pleasure in communicating to posterity the fame of
distinguished characters.----I write this last sentence with a hand
that trembles between hope and fear: But if I shall prove so happy as
to please your Ladyship in the following attempt, then all my doubts
shall vanish like a morning vapour:--I shall hope to be classed with
Tasso and Guarini, and sing with Ovid,
"If 'tis allowed to Poets to divine,
One half of round eternity is mine."
MADAM,
Your Ladyship's most obedient,
and most devoted servant,
ALLAN RAMSAY.
EDINBURGH, _June_, 1725.
TO THE
COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUN,
WITH THE FOLLOWING PASTORAL.
ACCEPT, O EGLINTOUN! the rural lays,
That, bound to thee, thy duteous Poet pays!
The muse, that oft has rais'd her tuneful strains,
A frequent guest on SCOTIA'S blissful plains,
That oft has sung, her list'ning youth to move,
The charms of beauty and the force of love,
Once more resumes the still successful lay,
Delighted, thro' the verdant meads to stray.
O! come, invok'd, and pleas'd, with Her repair,
To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air,
In the cool evening negligently laid,
Or near the stream, or in the rural shade,
Propitious hear, and, as thou hear'st, approve
The GENTLE SHEPHERD'S tender tale of love.
Instructed from these scenes, what glowing fires
Inflame the breast that real love inspires!
The fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears,
All that a lover hopes, and all he fears:
Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise!
What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes!
When first the fair one, piteous of his fate,
Cur'd of her scorn, and vanquish'd of her hate,
With willing mind, is bounteous to relent,
And blushing, beauteous, smiles the kind consent!
Love's passion here in each extreme is shown,
In Charlot's smile, or in Maria's frown.
With words like these, that fail'd not to engage,
Love courted beauty in a golden age,
Pure and untaught, such nature first inspir'd,
Ere yet the fair affected phrase desir'd.
His secret thoughts were undisguis'd with art,
His words ne'er knew to differ from his heart:
He speaks his love so artless and sincere,
As thy Eliza might be pleas'd to hear.
Heaven only to the Rural State bestows
Conquest o'er life, and freedom from its woes:
Secure alike from Envy and from Care;
Nor rais'd by Hope, nor yet depress'd by Fear:
Nor Want's lean hand its happiness constrains,
Nor Riches torture with ill-gotten gains.
No secret Guilt its stedfast peace destroys,
No wild Ambition interrupts its joys.
Blest still to spend the hours that Heav'n has lent
In humble goodness, and in calm content:
Serenely gentle, as the thoughts that roll,
Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's soul.
But now the Rural State these joys has lost;
Even swains no more that innocence can boast:
Love speaks no more what beauty may believe,
Prone to betray, and practis'd to deceive.
Now happiness forsakes her blest retreat,
The peaceful dwellings where she fix'd her seat;
The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace,
Companion to an upright sober race;
When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain,
Free and familiar with the sons of men,
To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast,
She uninvited came a welcome guest;
Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts,
Brib'd from their innocence incautious hearts:
Then grudging hate, and sinful pride succeed,
Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed;
Then dow'rless beauty lost the power to move;
The rust of lucre stain'd the gold of love:
Bounteous no more, and hospitably good,
The genial hearth first blush'd with stranger's blood:
The friend no more upon the friend relies,
And semblant falsehood puts on truth's disguise:
The peaceful houshold fill'd with dire alarms;
The ravish'd virgin mourns her slighted charms:
The voice of impious mirth is heard around;
In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crowned:
Unpunish'd violence lords it o'er the plains,
And Happiness forsakes the guilty swains.
Oh Happiness! from human search retir'd,
Where art thou to be found, by all desir'd?
Nun, sober and devout! why art thou fled,
To hide in shades thy meek contented head?
Virgin of aspect mild! ah! why, unkind,
Fly'st thou, displeas'd, the commerce of mankind?
O! teach our steps to find the secret cell,
Where, with thy sire, Content, thou lov'st to dwell.
Or say, dost thou, a duteous handmaid, wait
Familiar at the chambers of the great?
Dost thou pursue the voice of them that call
To noisy revel, and to midnight ball?
O'er the full banquet when we feast our soul,
Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl?
Or, with th' industrious planter dost thou talk,
Conversing freely in an evening walk?
Say, does the miser e'er thy face behold,
Watchful and studious of the treasur'd gold?
Seeks Knowledge, not in vain, thy much lov'd pow'r,
Still musing silent at the morning hour?
May we thy presence hope in war's alarms,
The Statesman's wisdom, or the Fair-one's charms?
In vain our flatt'ring hopes our steps beguile,
The flying good eludes the searcher's toil:
In vain we seek the city or the cell,
Alone with Virtue knows the Pow'r to dwell.
Nor need mankind despair these joys to know,
The gift themselves may on themselves bestow.
Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast,
But many passions must the blessing cost;
Infernal Malice, inly pining Hate,
And Envy, grieving at another's state:
Revenge no more must in our hearts remain,
Or burning Lust, or Avarice of gain.
When these are in the human bosom nurst,
Can Peace reside in dwellings so accurst?
Unlike, O EGLINTOUN! thy happy breast,
Calm and serene enjoys the heavenly guest;
From the tumultuous rule of passions free'd,
Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed:
In virtues rich, in goodness unconfin'd,
Thou shin'st a fair example to thy kind;
Sincere and equal to thy neighbour's fame,
How swift to praise, but how averse to blame!
Bold in thy presence bashful Sense appears,
And backward Merit loses all its fears.
Supremely blest by Heav'n, Heav'n's richest grace,
Confest is thine, an early blooming race;
Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm,
Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm:
What transports shall they to thy soul impart,
(The conscious transports of a parent's heart)
When thou behold'st them of each grace possest,
And sighing youths imploring to be blest!
After thy image form'd, with charms like thine,
Or in the visit, or the dance to shine:
Thrice happy! who succeed their mother's praise,
The lovely EGLINTOUNS of future days.
Meanwhile peruse the following tender scenes,
And listen to thy native Poet's strains:
In ancient garb the home-bred muse appears,
The garb our Muses wore in former years:
As in a glass reflected, here behold
How smiling goodness look'd in days of old:
Nor blush to read where beauty's praise is shown,
And virtuous love, the likeness of thy own;
While, 'midst the various gifts that gracious Heaven,
Bounteous to thee, with righteous hand has given,
Let this, O EGLINTOUN! delight thee most,
T' enjoy that Innocence the world has lost.
W. H.
TO
JOSIAH BURCHET, ESQ.,
SECRETARY OF THE ADMIRALTY,
WITH THE FIRST SCENE OF THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.
The nipping frosts, the driving snaw,
Are o'er the hills and far awa';
Bauld Boreas sleeps, the Zephyres blaw,
And ilka thing
Sae dainty, youthfou, gay, and bra',
Invites to sing.
Then let's begin by creek of day,
Kind muse skiff to the bent away,
To try anes mair the landart lay,
With a' thy speed,
Since BURCHET awns that thou can play
Upon the reed.
Anes, anes again beneath some tree
Exert thy skill and nat'ral glee,
To him wha has sae courteously,
To weaker sight,
Set these[57] rude sonnets sung by me
In truest light.
[Footnote 57: _To weaker sight, set these_, &c.] Having done me the
honour of turning some of my pastoral poems into English, justly and
elegantly.]
In truest light may a' that's fine
In his fair character still shine,
Sma' need he has of sangs like mine
To beet his name;
For frae the north to southern line,
Wide gangs his fame.
His fame, which ever shall abide,
Whilst hist'ries tell of tyrants pride,
Wha vainly strave upon the tide
T' invade these lands,
Where Britain's royal fleet doth ride,
Which still commands.
These doughty actions frae his pen,[58]
Our age, and these to come, shall ken,
How stubborn navies did contend
Upon the waves,
How free-born Britons faught like men,
Their faes like slaves.
[Footnote 58: _Frae his pen._] His valuable Naval History.]
Sae far inscribing, Sir, to you,
This country sang, my fancy flew,
Keen your just merit to pursue;
But ah! I fear,
In giving praises that are due,
I grate your ear.
Yet tent a poet's zealous pray'r;
May powers aboon, with kindly care,
Grant you a lang and muckle skair
Of a' that's good,
Till unto langest life and mair
You've healthfu' stood.
May never care your blessings sowr,
And may the muses, ilka hour,
Improve your mind, and haunt your bow'r;
I'm but a callan:
Yet may I please you, while I'm your
Devoted _Allan_.
THE PERSONS.
MEN.
SIR WILLIAM WORTHY.
PATIE, the Gentle Shepherd, in love with Peggy.
ROGER, a rich young shepherd, in love with Jenny.
SYMON, } two old shepherds, tenants to Sir William.
GLAUD, }
BAULDY, a hynd engaged with Neps.
WOMEN.
PEGGY, thought to be Glaud's niece.
JENNY, Glaud's only daughter.
MAUSE, an old woman, supposed to be a witch.
ELSPA, Symon's wife.
MADGE, Glaud's sister.
SCENE.--A Shepherd's Village, and Fields some few miles from Edinburgh.
_Time of Action within twenty hours._
First act begins at eight in the morning.
Second act begins at eleven in the forenoon.
Third act begins at four in the afternoon.
Fourth act begins at nine o'clock at night.
Fifth act begins by day light next morning.
THE
GENTLE SHEPHERD.
ACT FIRST.
_SCENE I._
Beneath the south-side of a craigy beild,
Where crystal springs the halesome waters yield,
Twa youthful shepherds on the gowans lay,
Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May.
Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring;
But blyther Patie likes to laugh and sing.
PATIE _and_ ROGER.
SANG I.--The wawking of the fauld.
PATIE sings.
_My_ Peggy _is a young thing,
Just enter'd in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay.
My_ Peggy _is a young thing,
And I'm not very auld;
Yet well I like to meet her, at
The wawking of the fauld._
_My_ Peggy _speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of 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 of 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.
My_ Peggy _smiles sae kindly,
It makes me blyth and bauld;
And naething gi'es me sic delight,
As wawking of 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,
And in her sangs are tauld,
With innocence, the wale of sense,
At wawking of the fauld._
PATIE.
This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood,
And puts all 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 'tis to snuff the cauler air,
And all the sweets it bears, when void of care!
What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane?
Tell me the cause of thy ill-season'd pain.
_Rog._ I'm born, O Patie! to a thrawart fate;
I'm born to strive with hardships sad and great.
Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood,
Corbies and tods to grein for lambkins blood;
But I, opprest with never ending grief,
Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.
_Pat._ The bees shall loath the flower, and quit the hive,
The saughs on boggie-ground shall cease to thrive,
Ere scornful queans, or loss of warldly gear,
Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear.