(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,
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward,
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward rout,
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 Tow'r + had sworn the fact was true: The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen sounding roar, Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore:

All

A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.
The two steeples.

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e;
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree:
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream.

When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling wings he heard; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Swift as the Gos* drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising piers: Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual fo'k;

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:
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,
Yet teughly 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 gos-hawk, or falcon,

The

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,
He, down the water, gies him this guideen-

AULD BRIG.

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

shank,

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,
Some fewer whigmeleeries 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' bonie Brigs o' modern time? There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat-stream,* Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim,

Ere

* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.

Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.

AULD BRIG.

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride! This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide; And 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 brawling Coil,

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal* draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;

And

*The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.

And from Glenbuck,* down to the Ration-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 L-d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't!
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-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;

*The source of the river Ayr.

A small landing place above the large key.

Fit