Poem on Pastoral Poetry
written in 1791
Poem on Pastoral Poetry - context Summary
Praise for Allan Ramsay
Written in 1791, Burns’s Poem On Pastoral Poetry defends and celebrates pastoral verse while praising Allan Ramsay. Burns contrasts lofty epic authors with the humble shepherd’s song, arguing that true pastoral springs from local landscape and feeling rather than classical ornament. He names classical models but elevates Ramsay as a Scottish successor whose Caledonian lines capture rural life, natural scenery, and simple love without bombast. The poem affirms vernacular, nature-focused poetry as worthy of equal standing with established canonical voices.
Read Complete AnalysesHail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers: And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 'Mid a' thy favours! Say, Lassie, why, thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage? In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin', till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame. But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin' patches O' heathen tatters: I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit and lear, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air, And rural grace; And, wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share A rival place? Yes! there is ane - a Scottish callan ! There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou's for ever. Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtle twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell! Thy rural loves are Nature's sel'; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin love, That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move. In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonie lasses bleach their claes, Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays, At close o' day.
Feel free to be first to leave comment.