With heart-felt throes his grateful swells,

The godlike bliss, to give alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,

bosom Ane on th' Auld Brig his alry shape uprears,
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers:
Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,
An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them,
And ev❜n the vera deils they brawly ken them.)
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
The very wrinkles Gothic in his face :
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,
Yet toughly doure, he bade an unco bang.
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got;
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead,
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking round with anxious
search,

And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap :
Potatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;
The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils,
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils,
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen
piles,

Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
The death o devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone
reek:

The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie,
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds)!
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs:
Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings,
Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee,
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang trec:
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide
blaze,

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in
the rays.

'Twas in that season, when a simple bard,
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward,
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward route,
And down by Simpson's wheel'd the left
about:

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate
To witness what I after shall narrate;
Or whether rapt in meditation high,
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why),
The drowsy Dungeon-clock,† had number'd two,
And Wallace tower† had sworn the fact was

Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch;
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e,
And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he!
Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien,
He, down the water, gies him thus guideʼen--

AULD BRIG.

I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep.
shank,

Auce ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank!
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me,
Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll never see;
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle,
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle.

NEW BRIG.

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense,
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense;
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street,
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they

meet,

Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime,
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time?
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat

stream,"

Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim,
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view
Of sie an ugly Gothic hulk as you.

AULD BRIG.

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide;
An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn,
I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn!
As yet ye little ken about the matter,
But twa-three winters will inform ye better.
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains,
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;
When from the hills where springs the brawl-
ing Coil,

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland

course,

Or haunted Gurpal † draws his feeble source,

A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.
The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places

Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting thowes, | And agonizing, curse the time and place
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes; When ye begat the base, degenerate race!
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the

gate;

And from Glenbuck down to the Ratton key,†
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea;
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise!
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring
skies,

A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,
That Architecture's noble art is lost!

NEW BRIG.

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't!

The Ld be thankit that we've tint the gate
o't!

Gaunt, ghastly, gaist-alluring edifices,
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices;
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves;
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture
drest,

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream,
The craz'd creations of misguided whim;
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended
knee,

And still the second dread command be free,
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or

sea.

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast;
Fit only for a doited Monkish race,
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace,
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion;
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with re-
surrection!

AULD BEIC.

O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings,
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Builie,
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye;
Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners,
To whom our moderns are but causey-
cleaners;

Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town;
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly
Writers:

A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do !
How would your spirits groan in deep vex-

ation,

To see each melancholy alteration;

in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring be ings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.

The sourse of the river Ayr.

↑ A small landing-place above the large key.

glory,

In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid

story!

Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce,
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house :
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,
The herryment and ruin of the country;
Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar-
bers,

Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on dd new Brigs and Harbours!

NEW BRIG.

Now haud you there! for faith ye've said
enough,

And muckle mair than ye can mak to through,
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:
But, under favour o' your langer beard,
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared :
To liken them to your auld warld squad,
I must needs say comparisons are odd.
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handie
To mouth a Citizen,' a term o' scandal:
Nae mair the Council waddles down the

What farther clishmaclaver might been said,
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to
No man can tell; but all before their sight,
shed,
A fairy train appear'd in order bright:
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danced:
Bright to the moon their various dresses
glanced :

They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat,
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet:
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung,
O had M'Lauchlin, thairm-inspiring sage,
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.
Been there to bear this heavenly band engage,
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they boro
with Highland rage;

Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs,
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares;
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd,
And even his matchless hand with finer touch
inspir'd!

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind-An' gie him o'er the flock to feed,

When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick—quaick-An' sklented on the man of Uz