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         Paterson, Ninian, d. 1688.
      
       
         
           1688
        
      
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         B04940
         Wing P705
         ESTC R181530
         51784602
         ocm 51784602
         175011
         
           
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             To the memory, of the incomparable Sir Andrevv Ramsey of Abbots-Hall. Provost of Edinburgh, counsellor to His Majesty, Lord of the Session, &c. Who departed thi life, January 17. 1688. A funeral elegie. / N. Paterson.
             Paterson, Ninian, d. 1688.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             s.n.,
             [Edinburgh :
             1688]
          
           
             Title vignette.
             Caption title.
             Place and date of publication suggested by Wing (2nd ed.).
             Reproduction of original in: National Library of Scotland.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Ramsay, Andrew, -- Sir, d. 1688 -- Death and burial -- Poetry.
           Elegiac poetry, Scottish -- Early works to 1800.
           Broadsides -- Scotland -- 17th century
        
      
    
     
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               MEMENTO
               MORI
            
          
           To
           the
           Memory
           ,
           of
           the
           Incomparable
           SIR
           ANDREVV
           RAMSAY
           OF
           ABBOTS-HALL
           .
           Provost
           of
           Edinburgh
           ,
           Counseller
           to
           His
           Majesty
           ,
           Lord
           of
           the
           Session
           ,
           &c.
           Who
           departed
           this
           Life
           ,
           
             January
             17.
             1688.
             
          
        
         
           A
           FVNERAL
           ELEGIE
           .
        
         
           AS
           to
           divide
           the
           Winds
           that
           disagree
           ,
        
         
           When
           in
           Tempestuous
           Storms
           they
           mingled
           be
           ,
        
         
           And
           lay
           their
           Stern
           Encounters
           so
           asleep
           ,
        
         
           That
           they
           may
           whisper
           Musick
           to
           the
           Deep
           ,
        
         
           Impossible
           to
           us
           it
           is
           ;
           no
           less
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           Praises
           ,
           or
           our
           Griefs
           ,
           are
           to
           express
           ,
        
         
           Great
           Abbots-Hall
           !
           Thy
           worth
           they
           only
           know
           ,
        
         
           Who
           are
           above
           ,
           when
           we
           do
           mourn
           below
           ,
        
         
           By
           Intellect
           and
           Love
           ,
           Ye
           converse
           there
           ,
        
         
           Things
           banished
           our
           muddie
           Hemisphere
           .
        
         
           Soul-wounding-grief
           ,
           and
           wonder
           ,
           are
           the
           two
           ,
        
         
           Sole
           Legacies
           ,
           Thou
           leaves
           us
           here
           below
           .
        
         
           And
           could
           not
           Thou
           have
           stayed
           with
           us
           a
           while
           ,
        
         
           Till
           Thou
           had
           seen
           a
           fully
           purged
           I
           le
           .
        
         
           Thou
           Edinburghs
           Glory
           ,
           Pleasure
           of
           our
           eyes
           !
        
         
           Yet
           blest
           be
           God
           ,
           it
           is
           with
           no
           surprise
           .
        
         
           Although
           our
           woeful
           Comfort
           who
           can
           smoother
           ,
        
         
           Is
           only
           this
           ,
           we
           'll
           ne're
           losse
           such
           another
           .
        
         
           And
           this
           compleats
           our
           Tragedie
           ,
           beyond
        
         
           This
           ,
           Fate
           can
           hardly
           give
           a
           greater
           wound
           .
        
         
           Our
           Nation
           's
           Bankrupt
           grown
           ,
           all
           men
           may
           see
           ,
        
         
           Beyond
           the
           hopes
           of
           a
           Recoverie
           .
        
         
           When
           Gallantry
           and
           Justice
           have
           their
           Fall
           ,
        
         
           In
           Collington
           and
           Generous
           Abbots-Hall
           ,
        
         
           For
           we
           could
           say
           ,
           while
           they
           were
           both
           alive
           ,
        
         
           The
           Kingdoms
           Honour
           could
           all
           Storms
           survive
           .
        
         
           Never
           did
           active
           Soul
           of
           Sacred
           Birth
           ,
        
         
           Inform
           a
           more
           Celestial
           piece
           of
           Earth
           ,
        
         
           Than
           Abbots-Hall
           ,
           who
           scarce
           has
           left
           behind
           ,
        
         
           A
           Subject
           ,
           of
           a
           more
           Majestick
           Mind
           .
        
         
           How
           did
           He
           all
           our
           angry
           Broiles
           appease
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           His
           own
           Unrest
           ,
           procure
           our
           Ease
           .
        
         
           He
           car'd
           not
           what
           Turmoils
           possest
           His
           Breast
           ,
        
         
           So
           that
           the
           Town
           from
           Tumults
           ,
           was
           at
           rest
           .
        
         
           For
           alwayes
           like
           a
           Monarch
           ,
           He
           did
           Reign
           ,
        
         
           Above
           dull-piti'd
           Envie
           ,
           or
           Disdain
           .
        
         
           Yet
           never
           did
           He
           to
           Preferment
           rise
        
         
           By
           Scrapes
           ,
           or
           Bribes
           ,
           or
           such
           base
           Simonies
           .
        
         
           He
           Calm'd
           all
           Quarrells
           ,
           Vanquisht
           every
           Spite
           ,
        
         
           And
           made
           each
           Enemie
           His
           proselyte
           .
        
         
           More
           than
           ten
           years
           ,
           which
           spoke
           His
           high
           Renown
           ,
        
         
           He
           was
           the
           Angel-Guardian
           of
           the
           Town
           .
        
         
           Where
           he
           made
           void
           the
           Poets
           sad
           Regrate
           .
        
         
           Of
           just
           Astreas
           long
           bewail'd
           Retreat
           ,
        
         
           His
           every
           Act
           that
           Opprobrie
           cancell'd
           .
        
         
           In
           Him
           she
           spoke
           ,
           in
           Him
           she
           Breath'd
           ,
           and
           Dwell'd
           .
        
         
           We
           may
           affirm
           it
           since
           our
           Saviours
           Birth
           ,
        
         
           He
           was
           Her
           truest
           Deputie
           on
           Earth
           .
        
         
           What
           ever
           Sentence
           from
           his
           Lips
           did
           fall
           ,
        
         
           His
           Prudence
           made
           it
           still
           Rhetorical
           .
        
         
           When
           this
           whole
           Island
           Floated
           in
           a
           Sea.
        
         
           Of
           Disobedience
           ,
           and
           Disloyaltie
           ,
        
         
           He
           by
           his
           Wisdom
           all
           these
           Syrens
           past
           ,
        
         
           Being
           pinioned
           unto
           the
           Loyal
           Mast
           .
        
         
           His
           Goodness
           ,
           and
           his
           Wisdom
           ,
           was
           so
           Great
           ,
        
         
           He
           Equally
           both
           Knaves
           ,
           and
           Fools
           ,
           did
           Hate
           .
        
         
           If
           what
           we
           Great
           or
           Generous
           Esteem
           ,
        
         
           Exemption
           from
           the
           Grave
           could
           justly
           claim
           ,
        
         
           He
           had
           (
           could
           now
           Fates
           Rigour
           be
           abated
           )
        
         
           With
           Enoch
           and
           Elias
           been
           translated
           .
        
         
           And
           yet
           though
           Death
           dissolved
           hath
           His
           ;
           Frame
           ,
        
         
           He
           'l
           be
           immortal
           in
           a
           lasting
           Fame
           ;
        
         
           If
           Generosity
           from
           Death
           could
           save
           ,
        
         
           Great
           Abbots-Hall
           He
           had
           escapt
           the
           Grave
           .
        
         
           But
           now
           being
           Heavens
           Inhabitant
           ,
           and
           Guest
           ,
        
         
           He
           unmixt
           Sweets
           enjoyes
           amongst
           the
           Blest
           .
        
         
           Yet
           may
           His
           Fame
           on
           Earth
           ,
           till
           time
           shal
           die
           ,
        
         
           Yeeld
           unto
           nothing
           ,
           but
           Eternitie
           .
        
         
           
             N.
             Paterson
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               O
               anima
               emigra
               ,
               Christo
               moriente
               quid
               horres
               ?
            
             
               Vivam
               seu
               Moriar
               ,
               Sanguine
               vivo
               Dei.
            
             
               Transitus
               è
               vivis
               ,
               Vitae
               melioris
               Origo
               est
               ,
            
             
               Aut
               potins
               Vitae
               mors
               ea
               Principium
               .
            
          
        
      
    
     
  

