A
BLOCK for ALLAN RAMSAY'S WIGS,
Or, the Famous POET, fall'n in a Sleep
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VOW Allie, what's come ore ye now;
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Fain wa'd we hear some News frae you;
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Some say ye'r Dead, but that's no True;
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gin ye sit Dumb,
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A Fig for a the canting Crew,
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they may sing Mum.
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Thou Thatch't our Noddles wi' thy Wigs,
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An' pleas't them wi' thy Wanton Jigs;
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I'm sure 'twad gar't an rin ten Ligs,
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to hear thy Jo[?]
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Bare hov'd thro' Briers an Thorny Sprigs,
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an ragged Rocks.
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But now we'r grown unco Scarce,
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Of Horse tail Wigs and Dogrell Verse,
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Patch't of Arabik Welsh an' Ears;
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some lang some short,
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For ye have flung beath at your A---s
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an' weas me fort.
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Yet some alledge on thee in Jock,
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Ye stack like Birky to the Block;
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But sorrow shoot them thro' the Dock,
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that ca' ye Dull,
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Shame ane I ken, but ye can Mock,
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for a thin Scull.
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Tho' nane e're heard you Scald or Banter,
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Yet some alledge th'us a great Vanter;
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Weel cu'd your Muse tune her awn Chanter.
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beath bald an' fierce,
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Fling up her tail a fa' to Ranter,
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Kilbarcan Verse.
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Dull do we sit, now just like Sots
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An' seldom meet to take our Pots;
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But bienly did we Drink our Groats,
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to hear thy Rimes,
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So weel we lyk't thy Auld Broad Scots,
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an' wanton Lines.
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We Laugh't to hear the Drols that past,
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Twice the and Willie i'the Wast;
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The Soger gae thy Muse a blast,
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made her so fain,
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Some think her Judgment got a cast,
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that Crack't her Brain.
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Tho' he's well kend to be ne Botcher,
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Yet others think ye dang the Soger;
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Exampli gratia, Pet an' Rodger,
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thy Master Swatch,
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Nae mair he will presume I Wadger,
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wi' thee to Match.
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But now thy Force to Counterballace,
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He has consulted, William Wallace;
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By Jove I think, sick Jollie Fallows,
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ner'e Drew a Pen.
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Or may I hing on Hamons Gallows,
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then tilt again.
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Put sick an Edge, as thou was wont on;
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I'm sure, that never was a blunt on:
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Make every hollow Rock, and Mounton;
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repeat thy Sangs.
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Which since, thou Drank the sacred Fountan,
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thy Fancy thrangs.
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Cu'd e're Baltrees, for a the Brags;
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Or wanton Willie waslan' Wags,
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So tightly Tune up Habbies Bags,
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say what they pleas,
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Or aff our auld Sangs Rive the Rags,
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gi' them bra Cleas.
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Thy Lines were Canty, quick and Smert;
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Gar't ay Fo'ke Laugh, and Chear't their Heart
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Wha hes a Guinea, an' can spairt,
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by hook or crook
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But gladly wi' it will he pairt,
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to buy thy Book
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Nane can thy Verses cast a blot on,
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For Halt or Lame, i'm sure ther's not on;
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So soft an' sweetly do they Trot on,
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wi' sick a Grace,
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Ey when we Read, wee'r forst to dot on,
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thy Bony Face.
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Dear Ramsay sit nae langer still,
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Rouse up thy Muse, and draw thy Quill;
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Su'd ye gi' P------k his Will,
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to gab an' Chaff.
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Lilt up the Lass o' Peties Mill,
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an Clear 'im aff.
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Thou nere wast Saucy Sour or Shanty,
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Ay very Droll and never Taunty,
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But unco Jollie Blyth an' Canty;
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just to our Mind,
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Thy Maik I'm sure, mo'other Twenty
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ye wino' find.
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Thy Lines did Auld Wives Hearts Inhance,
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Jump't just wi' good auld Ignorance;
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Thy Jigs gart them get up and Dance,
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as they'd ben Daft.
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Yev'e lost your Tune, shame fa the Chance,
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thats dung ye af't.
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Thy Innocent and Wanton Flights,
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Still past awa the Winter Nights,
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But Cherilus the Ladies Frights,
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Wi's Baudy tauk,
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Chear up an' Charge him at the Rights,
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an' gar'im Quake.
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Ye'l gare Fo'k true hes dung ye out'o't,
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Then tilt an' take another bout o't;
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Gi' the Baboun a cliver Clout o't,
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wi' unco Pith,
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Weell can ye do'd, ye need not dou't o't,
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he'l soon gea with.
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When Country Lasses met in Flocks,
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About the Fire to spin their Rocks;
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They a' teld Round thy Merry Jocks
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Mony a Night,
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An' tov'd an' sang till a the Cocks,
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Crew fair Day Light.
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To hear thy sweet kind canty Words,
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Auld Lucky Leugh an' a' the Herds,
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At ilka gaff she gart the Girds,
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fly free her Bung,
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Wee a' spoke sae co' she my Birds,
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when I was Young.
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Ye spake in sick a Cuthy Leed,
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without er'e spelling they cu'd Reed,
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An' got thy Lines by Heart indeed,
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an' keep't them there,
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Better nor Pater-noster Creed,
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or Common Prayer.
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A' thy bescatred Sences Ralzie,
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An' frae Parnassus make a Salzie;
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Weev'e seen the Day, ye Sang fu' Brallie,
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Pitkethly Well.
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Then up we'd ance mair Allie Allie,
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bra Bessie B.
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