'Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 'He gets his fairin!' But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Which rais'd us baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR: A POEM. INSCRIBED To J. B**** ****, Esq., AYR. THE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, hill; Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field-- With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up fra skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' 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 with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree: 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, 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) When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard, The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside, 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 vera wrinkles Gothic in his face: * A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. + The two steeples. The gos-hawk, or falcon. He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, AULD BRIG. I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheepshank, Ance 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 date come, I'll wad a boddle, 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, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time? * A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. |