Classic Poem

BAGPIPES NO MUSIC.

BEING A SATIRE ON SCOTS POETRY .

A S Dryden justly term'd poetic sound,
A pacing Pegasus on carpet ground:
Roscommon's nervous sense your verses yield,
A courser bounding o'er the furrow'd field:
The track pursue, that thinking Scots may see
The comprehensive English energy.
Scotch Maggy may go down at Aberdeen,
Where bonnets, bag-pipers, and plaids are seen;
But such poor gear no harmony can suit,
Much fitter for a Jew's trump than a lute.
Low bells, not lyres, the Highland cliffs adorn,
Macklean's loud halloo, or Mackgregor's horn.
Sooner shall China yield to earthen ware,
Sooner shall Abel teach a singing bear,
Than English bards let Scots torment their ear.
Who think their rustic jargon to explain,
For anes is once; lang, long; and two is twain;
Let them to Edinburgh foot it back,
And add their poetry to fill their pack;
While you, the fav'rite of the tuneful Nine,
Make English deeds in English numbers shine:
Leave Ramsay's clan to follow their own ways,
And while they mumble thistles, wear the bays.