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Fit only for a doited Monkish race,
ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners, 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 gie 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 vexation, To see each melancholy alteration; And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen’rate race ! Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's 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,
Brigs and Harbours !
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 favor o'your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd: To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle To mouth' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins, Or gather'd lib’ral views in Bonds and Şeisins. If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense, for once betray'd
them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.
What farther clishmaclaver might been said, What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright: Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danc’d; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd: 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, And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. O had M.Lauchlan,* thairm-inspiring sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with
Highland rage; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, And ey’n his matchless hand with finer touch
inspir'd! No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was hear'd; Harmonious concert rung in every part, While simplemelody pour’d moving on the heart.
The Genius of the stream in front
appears, , A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ;
* A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin.
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,
wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind
* The Poet alludes here to Mrs. Stewart of Stair. Stair was then in her possession. She afterwards removed to Afton-Lodge, on the banks of the Afton, a stream wbich he afterwards celebrated in a song entitled “ Afton Water."--See a letter to Mrs. Stewart, vol. ii.
. p. 23. The song, Afton Water, vol. iv. p. 331. E.
For sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n.-
ILMARNOCK Wabsters fidge an' claw,
pour your creeshie nations; An'
wha leather rax an' draw, Of a' denominations, Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an'a',
An' there tak up your stations ; Then aff to B-gb--'s in a raw, An' pour divine libations
For joy this day,