Sir , I had yours, and own my pleasure,
On the receipt, exceeded measure.
You write with so much sp'rit and glee,
Sae smooth, sae strong, correct, and free,
That any he (by you allow'd
To have some merit) may be proud.
If that 's my fault, bear you the blame,
Wha 've lent me sic a lift to fame.
Your ain tow'rs high, and widens far,
Bright glancing like a first-rate star,
And all the world bestow due praise
On the Collection of your lays;
Where various arts and turns combine,
Which even in parts first poets shine:
Like Matt and Swift ye sing with ease,
And can be Waller when you please.
Continue, Sir, and shame the crew
That 's plagu'd with having nought to do;
Whom fortune in a merry mood
Has overcharg'd with gentle blood,
But has deny'd a genius fit
For action or aspiring wit;
Such kenna how t' employ their time,
And think activity a crime.
Ought they to either do or say,
Or walk, or write, or read, or pray,
When money, their factotum's able
To furnish them a numerous rabble,
Who will, for daily drink and wages,
Be chairmen, chaplains, clerks, and pages?
Could they, like you, employ their hours
In planting these delightful flowers,
Which carpet the poetic fields,
And lasting funds of pleasure yields;
Nae mair they'd gaunt and gove away,
Or sleep or loiter out the day,
Or waste the night, damning their sauls,
In deep debauch and bawdy brawls;
Whence pox and poverty proceed,
An early eild, and spirits dead.
Reverse of you, and him you love,
Whose brighter spirit tow'rs above
The mob of thoughtless lords and beaux,
Who in his ilka action shows
" True friendship, love, benevolence,
" Unstudy'd wit, and manly sense. "
Allow here what you 've said yoursell,
Nought can b' exprest so just and well.
To him and her, worthy his love,
And every blessing from above,
A son is given, God save the boy,
For theirs and every Som ril's joy.
Ye wardens! round him take your place,
And raise him with each manly grace;
Make his meridian virtues shine,
To add fresh lustres to his line:
And many may the mother see
Of such a lovely progeny.

Now, Sir, when Boreas nae mair thuds
Hail, snaw, and sleet, frae blacken'd clouds;
While Caledonian hills are green,
And a' her straths delight the een;
While ilka flower with fragrance blows,
And a' the year its beauty shows;
Before again the winter lour,
What hinders then your northern tour?
Be sure of welcome; nor believe
These wha an ill report would give
To Ed'nburgh and the land of cakes,
That nought what 's necessary lacks.
Here plenty's goddess frae her horn
Pours fish and cattle, claith and corn,
In blyth abundance; and yet mair,
Our men are brave, our ladies fair:
Nor will North Britain yield for fouth
Of ilka thing, and fellows couth,
To ony but her sister South.

True, rugged roads are cursed dreigh,
And speats aft roar frae mountains heigh:
The body tires, (poor tottering clay!)
And likes with ease at hame to stay;
While sauls stride warlds at ilka stend,
And can their widening views extend.
Mine sees you, while you cheerfu' roam
On sweet Avona's flow'ry howm,
There recollecting, with full view,
These follies which mankind pursue;
While, conscious of superior merit,
You rise with a correcting spirit,
And as an agent of the gods,
Lash them with sharp satyric rods:
Labour divine! — Next, for a change,
O'er hill and dale I see you range
After the fox or whidding hare,
Confirming health in purest air;
While joy frae heights and dales resounds,
Rais'd by the holla, horn, and hounds:
Fatigu'd, yet pleas'd, the chace out run,
I see the friend, and setting sun,
Invite you to the temp'rate bicker,
Which makes the blood and wit flow quicker.
The clock strikes twelve, to rest you bound,
To save your health by sleeping sound.
Thus with cool head and healsome breast,
You see new day stream frae the east;
Then all the muses round you shine,
Inspiring ev'ry thought divine:
Be long their aid: — your years and blisses,
Your servant Allan Ramsay wishes.