UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air.

The rising sun owrs Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin'

The hares were hirplin' down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin'
Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad
To see a scene say gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin' up the way:

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third that gaed a wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining,
Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes:

Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin,
An' sour as ony slae;

The third came up, hap-stap-an'-lowp.
As light as ony lambie,

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye.
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak,
An' tak's me by the hands,
"Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck
Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

"My name is fun-your cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye ha'e:
An' this is Superstition here,
An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin';

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkled pair,
We will get famous laughin'

At them this day."

Quoth I, "Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't:
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
And meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!"
Then I gaid hame at crowdie-time,
And soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frac side to side,
Wi' mony a weary body,

In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in riding graith,
Gaed hoddin by their cottars;

There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
Are springin o'er the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin' baretit, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter;

Wi' sweet milk-cheese in monie a whang,
And farls bak'd wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up by ha'pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,
And we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show,

On every side they gatherin',

Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, An some are busy blethrin'

Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,
An' screen our contra Gentry,
Their racer Jess, an twa-three more,
Are blinkin' at the entry.

Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades,

Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck,
An' there a batch of wabster lads,
Blackguardin' frae Kilmarnock,
For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin' on their sins,
And some upo' their claes;
And curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
Anither sighs an' prays;

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses
To chairs that day.

O happy is the man an' blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!)
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin' down beside him!
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back,
He sweetly does compose him;
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom,

'Unkenn'd that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie speels the holy door
Wi' tidings o' damnation.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
'Mang sons o' God present him,
The vera sight o' Moodie's face,
To's ain het hame had sent him
Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi' rattlin' an' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin' an' he's jumpin'!
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout,
His eldritch squeel and gestures,
Oh, how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plasters,

On sic a day!

But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice: There's peace and rest nae langer:

For a the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger.

Smith opens out his cauld harangues

On practice and on morals;

An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an' barrels
A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine
Of moral pow'rs and reason?
His English style, an' gesture fine,
Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,

Or some auld pagan Heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in

That's right that day.
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum:
For Peebles, frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he's got the word o' God,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
While Common-sense has ta'en the road,
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,11

Fast, fast, that day.

Wee Miller neist the guard relieves,
An' orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

And thinks it auld wives' fables:
But, faith; the birkie wants a manse
So cannily he humes them;

Altho' his carnal wit and sense
Like haffins-ways o'ercomes him
At times that day.

Now butt an' ben, the change-house fills,
Wi' yill-caup commentators:
Here's crying out for bakes and gills,

And there the pint stoup clatters;
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end,
Is like to breed a rupture

O' wrath that day.

Leeze me on Drink! it gi'es us mair
Than either School or College:

It kindles wit, it waukens lair,
It pangs us fou o' knowledge.

Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,

It never fails, on drinking deep,
To kittle up our notion

By night or day.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul and body,

Sit round the table weel content,

An' steer about the toddy.

On this ane's dress, and ane's leuk, They're makin' observation; While some are cozic i' the neuk, An' forming assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin',
An' echoes back return the shouts:

Black Russell is na sparin':

His piercing words, like Highland swords
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,
Our very sauls does harrow
Wi' fright that day.

As vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin, brunstane,
Wha's ragin' flame and scorchin' heat
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half asleep start up wi' fear,
And think they hear it roarin',
When presently it does appear,
"Twas but some neighbour snorin'
Asleep that day.

"Twad be, owre lang a tale to tell
How monie stories past,
An' how they crowded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist:

How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms an' benches;

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches

An' dawds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,
An' sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;
The lasses they are shyer.

The auld guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
And gi's them't like a thether,
Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives be mindfu' ance yoursel
How bonnie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow,
Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,
Till fasses strip their shoon:
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,
They're a' in famous tune,

For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts
O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane,
As soft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;
There's some are fou o' brandy;
An' mony jobs that day begin,
May end in houghmagandie
Some ither day.

DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK:

A TRUE STORY.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd,
In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi'' Scripture.

But this that I am gann to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true's the De'il's in hell
Or Dublin city:
That e'er he nearer comes oursel'
'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty-
I was nae fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye
To free the ditches;
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r
The distant Cunnock hills out-owre;
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel';

But whether she had three or four,
I couldna tell.

Ay, ay!' quo' he, an' shook his head,
Its een a lang, lang time indeed

Sin' I began to nick the thread,

An' choke the breath;
Folk maun do something for their bread.
An' sae maun Death.

'Six thousand years are near hand fled,
Sin' I was to the butch'ring bred.
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,

To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook's14 taen up the trade,
An' faith, he'll waur me.

Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' the Clachan, Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan! Ile's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan15 An' ither chaps, The weans hand out their fingers laughin' An' pouk my hips.

See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art

And cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a ***
D**** haet they'll kill.

"Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,

It just play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

'Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,
And had sae fortified the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart
Of a kail-runt.

'I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary

Withstood the shock;

I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.

Ev'n then he canna get attended,
Altho' their face he ne'er had kenn'd it,
Just-in a kail-blade, and send it,

As soon he smells't.

Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't.

Waes me for Johnny Ged's hole16 now;
Quo' I, If that the news be true!
His braw calf-ward where gowans grew,
Sae white an' bonnie,
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough;
They'll ruin Johnnie!'

The creature grinn'd an eldritch laugh,
An' says, ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak
ye nae fear;
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
In twa-three year.

Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death,
By loss o' blood o' want of breath,
This night I'm free to tak my aith,

That Hornbook's skill
Has clad a score i' their last claith,
By drap an' pill.

That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way. Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,

An's weel paid for't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,

With his d**** dirt.

But hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot,

As dead's a herrin", Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his farin'!' But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, Some wee short hour ayont the twal, Which rais'd us baith

I took the way that pleased mysel', And sae did Death.

THE BRIGS OF AYR:

A POEM.

INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR. THE simple bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from every bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush:

The soaring lark, the piercing red-breast shrill, Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er the 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-
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of a Bard,

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still if some patron's generous care he trace,
Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When Ballantyne befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heart-felt throbs 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 frae skaith
Of coming winter's biting, frosty breath;
The bees rejoicing o'er their simmer toils,
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers delicious spoils,
Sealed 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 flower 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 tree:
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide
blaze,

While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays.

When, lo! on either hand the list'ning bard, The clanging sough of whistling wings he heard:

Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air,
Swift as the Gos19 drives on the wheeling have
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.
(Thae Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,
An' ken the lingo of the spiritual folk:
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain
them,

And e'en 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,
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

Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch;
It chanc'd his new-come neebour 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 guid-e'en-

When heavy, dark, continued. a-day rains,
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;
When from the hills where springs tee brawling
Coil,

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland

course

Or haunted Garpal21 draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotted throwes,

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 from Glenbuck22 down to the Ratton key,23
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!

Oye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!

Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Baille,

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 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 vexation,
To see each melancholy alteration;
And agonizing, curse the time and place
When ye begat the base, degenerate 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,
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 d-
new brigs and harbour!

NEW BRIG.

-d

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 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 seisins,
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp,
And would to Common-sense, for once betrayed
them,

Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.

What farther clishmaclaver night been said, What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell; but all before their sigh 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,
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.
O had M'Lauchlin,24 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 raptured joys or bleeding cares;
How would his Highland lug been nobler fired,
And even 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 heard.
Harmonious concert rung in every part,
While simple melody pour'd moving on the
heart.

The Genius of the stream in front appears,
A venerable chief advanced in years;
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring:
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural

Joy,

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye.
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding

corn:

Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary show,

By Hospitality with cloudless brow;
Next followed Courage with his martial stride,
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide
Benevolence, with mild benignant air,

A female25 form came from the tow'rs of Stair!
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode;
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel
wreath,

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken iron instruments of death:

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

THE ORDINATION.

For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'nTo please the mob they hide the little giv'n.

I.

KILMARNOCK Wabsters, fidge and claw,
An' pour your creeshie nations;
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,
Of a' denominations.