Ye Caledonian beauties! who have long
Been both the muse and subject of my song,
Assist your bard, who, in harmonious lays,
Designs the glory of your plaid to raise.
How my fond breast with blazing ardor glows,
Whene'er my song on you just praise bestows!

Phœbus and his imaginary nine
With me have lost the title of divine;
To no such shadows will I homage pay,
These to my real muses shall give way;
My muses who, on smooth meand'ring Tweed,
Stray thro' the groves, or grace the clover mead;
Or these who bathe themselves where haughty Clyde
Does roaring o'er his lofty cat'racts ride;
Or you who, on the banks of gentle Tay,
Drain from the flow'rs the early dews of May,
To varnish on your cheek the crimson dye,
Or make the white the falling snow outvy;
And you who, on Edina's streets, display
Millions of matchless beauties every day;
Inspir'd by you, what poet can desire
To warm his genius at a brighter fire?

I sing the plaid, and sing with all my skill;
Mount then, O Fancy! standard to my will;
Be strong each thought, run soft each happy line,
That gracefulness and harmony may shine,
Adapted to the beautiful design.
Great is the subject, vast th' exalted theme,
And shall stand fair in endless rolls of fame.

The plaid's antiquity comes first in view,
Precedence to antiquity is due:
Antiquity contains a certain spell,
To make e'en things of little worth excel;
To smallest subjects gives a glaring dash,
Protecting high-born idiots from the lash;
Much more 'tis valu'd when, with merit plac'd,
It graces merit, and by merit's grac'd.

O, first of garbs! garment of happy fate!
So long employ'd, of such an antique date;
Look back some thousand years, till records fail
And lose themselves in some romantic tale,
We'll find our godlike fathers nobly scorn'd
To be with any other dress adorn'd,
Before base foreign fashions interwove,
Which 'gainst their int'rest and their brav'ry strove.
'Twas they could boast their freedom with proud Rome,
And, arm'd in steel, despise the senate's doom:
Whilst o'er the globe their eagle they display'd,
And conquer'd nations prostrate homage paid,
They only, they unconquer'd stood their ground,
And to the mighty empire fix'd the bound.
Our native prince who then supply'd the throne
In plaid array'd magnificently shone;
Nor seem'd his purple or his ermine less,
Though cover'd with the Caledonian dress.
In this at court the thanes were gaily clad,
With this the shepherds and the hinds were glad,
In this the warrior wrapt his brawny arms,
With this our beauteous mothers veil'd their charms,
When ev'ry youth and ev'ry lovely maid
Deem'd it a dishabille to want their plaid.

O, heav'ns! how chang'd, how little look their race!
When foreign chains with foreign modes take place;
When East and Western Indies must combine
To deck the fop and make the gegaw shine.
Thus while the Grecian troops in Persia lay,
And learn'd the habit to be soft and gay,
By luxury ennerv'd, they lost the day.

I ask'd Varell, what soldiers he thought best?
And thus he answer'd to my plain request:
“Were I to lead battalions out to war,
“And hop'd to triumph in the victor's car,
“To gain the loud applause of worthy fame,
“And columns rais'd to eternize my name,
“I 'd choose, had I my choice, that hardy race
“Who fearless can look terrors in the face;
“Who 'midst the snows the best of limbs can fold
“In tartan plaids, and smile at chilling cold:
“No useless trash should pain my soldier's back,
“No canvas tents make loaden axels crack;
“No rattling silks I 'd to my standards bind,
“But bright tartanas waving in the wind;
“The plaid alone should all my ensigns be,
“This army from such banners would not flee.
“These, these were they who, naked, taught the “way
“To fight with art, and boldly gain the day.”
E'en great Gustavus stood himself amaz'd,
While at their wond'rous skill and force he gaz'd.
With such brave troops one might o'er Europe run,
Make out what Richlieu fram'd, and Lewis had begun.

Degen'rate men!—Now, ladies, please to sit,
That I the plaid in all its airs may hit,
With all the pow'rs of softness mixt with wit.

While scorching Titan tawns the shepherd's brow,
And whistling hinds sweat lagging at the plow,
The piercing beams Brucina can defy,
Not sun-burnt she 's, nor dazzled is her eye.
Ugly 's the mask, the fan 's a trifling toy
To still at church some girl or restless boy;
Fix'd to one spot 's the pine and myrtle shades;
But on each motion wait th' umbrellian plaids,
Repelling dust when winds disturb the air,
And give a check to ev'ry ill-bred stare.

Light as the pinions of the airy fry
Of larks and linnets who traverse the sky,
Is the tartana, spun so very fine
Its weight can never make the fair repine,
By raising ferments in her glowing blood,
Which cannot be escap'd within the hood;
Nor does it move beyond its proper sphere,
But lets the gown in all its shape appear;
Nor is the straightness of her waist deny'd
To be by ev'ry ravish'd eye survey'd;
For this the hoop may stand at largest bend,
It comes not high, nor can its weight offend.

The hood and mantle make the tender faint,
I 'm pain'd to see them moving like a tent,
By heather Jenny in her blanket drest
The hood and mantle fully are exprest,
Which round her neck with rags is firmly bound,
While heather besoms loud she screams around.
Was goody Strode so great a pattern? Say,
Are ye to follow when such lead the way?
But know each fair who shall this surtout use,
You 're no more Scots, and cease to be my muse.

The smoothest labours of the Persian loom,
Lin'd in the plaid, set off the beauty's bloom;
Faint is the gloss, nor come the colours nigh,
Tho' white as milk, or dipt in scarlet dye:
The lily pluckt by fair Pringella grieves,
Whose whiter hand outshines its snowy leaves;
No wonder then white silks in our esteem,
Match'd with her fairer face, they sully'd seem.

If shining red Campbella's cheeks adorn,
Our fancies straight conceive the blushing morn,
Beneath whose dawn the sun of beauty lies,
Nor need we light but from Campbella's eyes.

If lin'd with green Stuarta's plaid we view,
Or thine, Ramseia, edg'd around with blue,
One shews the spring when nature is most kind,
The other heav'n whose spangles lift the mind.

A garden-plot enrich'd with chosen flow'rs,
In sun-beams basking after vernal show'rs,
Where lovely pinks in sweet confusion rise,
And amaranths and eglantines surprise,
Hedg'd round with fragrant briar and jessamine,
The rosy thorn and variegated green;
These give not half that pleasure to the view
As when, Fergusia, mortals gaze on you,
You raise our wonder, and our love engage,
Which makes us curse and yet admire the hedge,
The silk and tartan hedge, which doth conspire
With you to kindle love's soft spreading fire.
How many charms can ev'ry fair one boast!
How oft 's our fancy in the plenty lost!
These more remote, these we admire the most:
What's too familiar often we despise,
But rarity makes still the value rise.

If Sol himself should shine thro' all the day,
We cloy, and lose the pleasure of his ray,
But if behind some marly cloud he steal,
Nor for some time his radiant head reveal,
With brighter charms his absence he repays,
And ev'ry sun-beam seems a double blaze:
So when the fair their dazzling lustres shroud,
And disappoint us with a tartan cloud,
How fondly do we peep with wishful eye,
Transported when one lovely charm we spy!
Oft to our cost, ah me! we often find
The pow'r of love strikes deep, tho' he be blind;
Perch'd on a lip, a cheek, a chin, or smile,
Hits with surprise, and throws young hearts in jail.

From when the cock proclaims the rising day,
And milk-maids sing around sweet curds and whey,
Till grey-ey'd twilight, harbinger of night,
Pursues o'er silver mountains sinking light,
I can unwearied from my casements view
The plaid, with something still about it new.
How are we pleas'd when, with a handsome air,
We see Hepburna walk with easy care!
One arm half circles round her slender waist,
The other like an iv'ry pillar plac'd,
To hold her plaid around her modest face,
Which saves her blushes with the gayest grace;
If in white kids her taper fingers move,
Or, unconfin'd, jet thro' the sable glove.

With what a pretty action Keitha holds
Her plaid, and varies oft its airy folds!
How does that naked space the spirits move,
Between the ruffled lawn and envious glove!
We by the sample, though no more be seen,
Imagine all that's fair within the skreen.

Thus belles in plaids vail and display their charms,
The love-sick youth thus bright Humea warms,
And with her graceful mien her rivals all alarms.

The plaid itself gives pleasure to the sight,
To see how all its sets imbibe the light,
Forming some way, which e'en to me lies hid,
White, black, blue, yellow, purple, green, and red.
Let Newton's royal club through prisms stare,
To view celestial dyes with curious care,
I 'll please myself, nor shall my sight ask aid
Of crystal gimcracks to survey the plaid.

How decent is the plaid, when in the pew
It hides th' enchanting fair from ogler's view!
The mind 's oft crowded with ill-tim'd desires
When nymphs unveil'd approach the sacred choirs.
E'en senators who guard the commonweal,
Their minds may rove:—are mortals made of steel?
The finish'd beaux start up in all their airs,
And search out beauties more than mind their pray'rs.
The wainscot forty-sixes are perplext
To be eclips'd, spite makes them drop the text.
The younger gaze at each fine thing they see;
The orator himself is scarcely free.
Ye then who would your piety express,
To sacred domes ne'er come in naked dress.
The pow'r of modesty shall still prevail;
Then, Scotian virgins, use your native veil.

Thus far young Cosmel read; then star'd and curst,
And ask'd me very gravely, how I durst
Advance such praises for a thing despis'd?
He smiling swore I had been ill advis'd,

To you, said I, perhaps this may seem true,
And numbers vast, not fools, may side with you;
As many shall my sentiments approve:
Tell me what 's not the butt of scorn and love?
Were mankind all agreed to think one way,
What would divines and poets have to say?
No ensigns would on martial fields be spread,
And corpus juris never would be read:
We 'd need no councils, parliaments, nor kings,
E'en wit and learning would turn silly things.
You miss my meaning still, I 'm much afraid,
I would not have them always wear the plaid.

Old Salem's royal sage, of wits the prime,
Said, for each thing there was a proper time.
Night 's but Aurora's plaid, that ta'en away
We lose the pleasure of returning day;
E'en thro' the gloom, when view'd in sparkling skies,
Orbs scarcely seen yet gratify our eyes:
So thro' Hamilla's open'd plaid we may
Behold her heav'nly face and heaving milky way.
Spanish reserve, join'd with a Gallic air,
If manag'd well, becomes the Scotian fair.

Now you say well, said he; but when's the time
That they may drop the plaid without a crime?

Then I—
Lest, O fair nymphs, ye should our patience tire,
And starch reserve extinguish gen'rous fire;
Since heav'n your soft victorious charms design'd
To form a smoothness on the rougher mind;
When from the bold and noble toils of war,
The rural cares, or labours of the bar,
From these hard studies which are learn'd and grave,
And some from dang'rous riding o'er the wave,
The Caledonian manly youth resort
To their Edina, love's great mart and port,
And crowd her theatres with all that grace
Which is peculiar to the Scotian race;
At concert, ball, or some fair's marriage-day,
O then with freedom all that 's sweet display.
When beauty 's to be judg'd without a veil,
And not its pow'r met out as by retail,
But wholesale all at once to fill the mind
With sentiments gay, soft, and frankly kind,
Throw by the plaid, and like the lamp of day,
When there 's no cloud to intercept his ray;
So shine Maxella, nor their censure fear,
Who, slaves to vapours, dare not so appear.

On Ida's height, when to the royal swain,
To know who should the prize of beauty gain,
Jove sent his two fair daughters and his wife,
That he might be the judge to end the strife;
Hermes was guide: they found him by a tree,
And thus they spake, with air divinely free:
“Say, Paris, which is fairest of us three?”
To Jove's high queen and the celestial maids,
'Ere he would pass his sentence, cry'd, “No “plaids.”
Quickly the goddesses obey'd his call,
In simple nature's dress he view'd them all,
Then to Cytherea gave the golden ball.

Great critics, hail! our dread; whose love or hate
Can, with a frown or smile, give verse its fate;
Attend, while o'er this field my fancy roams,
I 've somewhat more to say, and here it comes.

When virtue was a crime, in Tancred's reign,
There was a noble youth who would not deign
To own for sov'reign one a slave to vice,
Or blot his conscience at the highest price;
For which his death 's devis'd, with hellish art
To tear from his warm breast his beating heart.
Fame told the tragic news to all the fair,
Whose num'rous sighs and groans bound thro' the air:
All mourn his fate, tears trickle from each eye,
Till his kind sister threw the woman by;
She, in his stead, a gen'rous off'ring staid,
And he, the tyrant baulk'd, hid in her plaid.
So when Æneas with Achilles strove,
The goddess-mother hasted from above,
Well seen in fate, prompt by maternal love,
Wrapt him in mist, and warded off the blow
That was design'd him by his valiant foe.

I of the plaid could tell a hundred tales;
Then hear another, since that strain prevails.

The tale no records tell, it is so old;
It happen'd in the easy age of gold,
When am'rous Jove, chief of th' Olympian gods,
Pall'd with Saturnia, came to our abodes,
A beauty-hunting; for, in these soft days,
Nor gods nor men delighted in a chace
That would destroy not propagate their race.
Beneath a fir-tree in Glentaner's groves,
Where, 'ere gay fabrics rose, swains sung their loves,
Iris lay sleeping in the open air,
A bright tartana veil'd the lovely fair:
The wounded god beheld her matchless charms
With earnest eyes, and grasp'd her in his arms.
Soon he made known to her, with gaining skill,
His dignity, and import of his will.
“Speak thy desire,” the divine monarch said.
“Make me a goddess,” cry'd the Scotian maid;
“Nor let hard fate bereave me of my plaid.”—
“Be thou the handmaid to my mighty queen,”
Said Jove; “and to the world be often seen
“With the celestial bow, and thus appear
“Clad with these radiant colours as thy wear.”

Now say, my muse, 'ere thou forsake the field,
What profit does the plaid to Scotia yield?
Justly that claims our love, esteem, and boast,
Which is produc'd within our native coast.
On our own mountains grows the golden fleece,
Richer than that which Jason brought to Greece;
A beneficial branch of Albion's trade,
And the first parent of the Tartan plaid.
Our fair ingenious ladies' hands prepare
The equal threads, and give the dyes with care.
Thousands of artists sullen hours decoy
On rattling looms, and view their webs with joy.

May she be curst to starve in frogland fens,
To wear a fala ragg'd at both the ends.
Groan still beneath the antiquated suit,
And die a maid at fifty-five to boot.
May she turn quaggy fat, or crooked dwarf,
Be ridicul'd while primm'd up in her scarf;
May spleen and spite still keep her on the fret,
And live till she outlive her beauty's date.
May all this fall, and more than I have said,
Upon that wench who disregards the plaid.

But with the sun let ev'ry joy arise,
And from soft slumbers lift her happy eyes;
May blooming youth be fixt upon her face,
Till she has seen her fourth descending race;
Blest with a mate with whom she can agree,
And never want the finest of bohea;
May ne'er the miser's fears make her afraid,
Who joins with me, with me admires the plaid.
Let bright tartanas henceforth ever shine,
And Caledonian goddesses enshrine.

Fair judges, to your censure I submit;
If you allow this poem to have wit,
I 'll look with scor