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Frae ev'ry quarter of the sky,

As swift as a quhirl-wynd,
With spirits speid the chieftains hy,

Sum grit thing is desygnd.
Owre muntains be funtains,

And round ilk fairy ring, I baif chaist O haist

They talk about your king.



With that my hand methocht he schuke,
And wischt | happiness micht bruke,

To eild by nicht and day,
Syne quicker than an arrow's flicht,
He mountit upwards frae my sicht,

Straicht to the milkie way;
My mind him followit throw the skyes,

Untill the brynie streme
For joy ran trickling frae myne eyes,

And wakit me frae my dreime;
Then peiping, half sleiping,

Frae furth my ryal beild, It eisit me, and pleisit me

To se and smell the feild.

For Flora in hir clene array,
New washen with a showir of May,

Lukit full sweit and fair;
Qubile hir cleir husband frae above
Sched doun his rayis of genial luve,

Hir sweits perfumit the ayr;
The wynds war husht, the welkin cleir'd,

The glumand clouds war fled, And all as saft and gay appeir'd

As ane Elysian sched; Quhile heisit and bleisit

My heart with sic a fyre, As raises these praises,

That do to heaven aspyre.

This is evidently the production of Allan Ramsay, and is certainly among the best of his pieces. It was first published in The Ever-Green, and said to be "compylit in Latin be a most lernit Clerk, in tyme of our hairship and opression, anno 1300, and translatit in 1524." As no copy of the Poem has ever been even pretended to have been seen or heard of, previous to the publication by Ramsay himself; as his family knew and have affirmed it to be his; and as it has never been claimed by, or for any other, it would be superfluous to enter into any discussion upon the subject. Should any one entertain doubts upon the matter, I would only advise him to peruse, along with the Pocin, carefully, the acknowledged Works of Ramsay, and I have no doubt that if he is not convinced that it is Ramsay's, he will be satisfied that the writer whoever he was, was a most

happy imitator both of his beauties and blemishes. Dr. Beattie of Aberdeen, the elegant and accomplished author of The Minstrel, seems to have seen through the flimsy pretence of antiquity, ascribed to this poem by its author, for the purpose of avoiding the odium and contempt, which, at that time, attached to the votaries of Superstition and Tyranny, (for it had not yet become fashionable to lose sight of the interests of the present, and of future generations, in an affectation of sympathy for a worthless Vermin, whose highest claim of merit was a towpenny cord, and the first thorn-bush that was high enough to hang him,) and, in a letter to Mr. Pinkerton he says “the best Scottish Poem of modern times that I have seen, (for, though the title pretends it was written four hundred years ago, I have reason to think that it was produced in this century, is calied The Vision. I am inclined to think that the author, whoever he was, must have read Arbuthnot's History of John Bull. But there are noble images in it, and a harmony of versification superior to every thing I have seen in the kind. I suspect that it is the work of some friend of the family of Stuart, and that it must have been composed about the year 1715.".

Pinkerton in a note to his Edition of the Poem, says, “ The principles of this Poem are utterly detested by the editor, as they are by every friend of mankind: he only gives it as a piece of fine writing in its way. The unhappy attachment to the family of Stuart, has wasted the finest estates, and shed some of the best blood in Scotland. It now exists only in the breasts of old women." Could the present dealers in Jacobite ribaldry, bawdry, and blasphemy, plead, in extenuation of their conduct, the weak ness of sex, and the dotage of age, it were certainly very fortunate for their reputations.

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown;
A train-band captain eke was he

Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear-

Though wedded we have been
“ These twice ten tedious ycars, y'et we

- No holiday have seen.

« To morrow is our wedding day,

“ And we will then repair “ Unto the Bell at Edmonton,

All in a chaise and pair.


My sister and my sister's child,

Myself and children three, “ Will fill the chaise; so you must ride

" On horseback after we.”

He soon reply'd—“I do admire

« Of woman-kind but one; “ And you are she, my dearest dear,

" Therefore it shall be done.

“ I am a linen-draper bold,

“ As all the world doth know; * And my good friend Tom Callender,

" Will lend his horse to go.” Quoth Mrs. Gilpin—" That's well said;

“ And, for that wine is dear, « We will be furnish'd with our own,

“ Which is both bright and clear.”

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;

O'erjoyed was he to find,
That though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,

But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was staid,

Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls; and all agog,

To dash through thick and thin,

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folks so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side,

Seiz'd fast the flowing mane,
And up he got in haste to ride,

But soon came down again.
For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,

His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw

Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,

Although it griev'd him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,

Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind,
When Betty screaming came down stairs,

“ The wine is left behind !”
« Good lack !" quoth he; " yet bring it me,

“ My leathern belt likewise, “ In which I bear my trusty sword

6 When I do exercise."

Now Mrs. Gilpin-careful soul !

Had two stone-bottles found,
To hold the liquor which she lov'd,

And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew; And hung a bottle on each side,

To make his balance true.

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Then over all, that he might be

Equipp'd from top to toe,
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat,

He manfully did throws
Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,

With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road

Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,

Which gall’d him in his seat.
So“ fair and softly,” John did cry;

But John he cried in vain ;
That trot became a gallop soon

In spite of curb and rein
So stooping down, as he needs must

Who cannot sit upright,
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands,

And eke with all his might.

The horse, who never had before

Been handled in this kind, Affrighted fled; and, as he flew,

Left all the world behind.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought,

Away went hat and wig;
He little dream't, when he set out,

Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,

Like streamer long and gay;
Till, loop and button failing both,

At last it flew away.

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