In 1743 his circumstances were such as enabled him to build a small octagon shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which he named Ramsay Lodge, but which some of his witty friends compared to a goose pie. He told Lord Elibank one day of this ungracious comparison. "What," said the witty peer, "a goose pie! In good faith, Allan, now that I see _you_ in it, I think the house is not ill named." He lived in this odd-looking edifice till the day of his death, enjoying the society of his friends, and cracking his jokes with perhaps greater quietness, but with as much gust and hilarity as ever. He was a man of genius, and has exerted great influence on the lighter literature of Scotland. He was an immense favorite with Burns, his equal in genius, his superior in depth of feeling, in tenderness and beauty of expression. But Burns doubtless owed something to the "wood notes wild," of his illustrious predecessor. Both have done much to illustrate and beautify their native land. Next morning at early dawn we are rambling in and around the pretty village of Lasswade, which lies so sweetly on the left bank of the North Esk. The river runs in many charming sinuosities through the parish, now passing over a smooth ledge of rocks, then "wimpling" over shining pebbles, then gliding with a scarcely perceptible motion "among the green braes," now wetting the pendant branches of the birch and broom, anon sleeping in a deep pellucid pool, then leaping "o'er a linn," and then gushing with a hollow murmur, among the loose gray rocks. Nothing can be more beautiful and picturesque. Many pretty cottages and handsome villas adorn the neighborhood. De Quincy, the celebrated English "opium eater" lives here, and Sir Walter Scott at one time occupied a cottage in the vicinity. The following is a happy description from his pen, of the enchanting scenes through which the North and South Esk flow. It is taken from his ballad of the "Grey Brother." Sweet are the paths--O passing sweet! By Esk's fair streams that run, O'er airy steep, through copsewood's deep, Impervious to the sun. There the rapt poet's step may rove, And yield the muse the day; There beauty led by timid love, May shun the tell-tale ray. From that fair dome[80] where suit is paid, By blast of bugle free, To Auchindinny's hazel glade, And haunted Woodhouselee. Who knows not Melville's beechy groove, And Roslin's rocky glen, Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, And classic Hawthornden.