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'Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
When it was sair ; “The wife slade cannie to her bed,
‘But ne'er spak mair.
"A countra Laird had ta'en the batts,
'An' pays him well. • The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets,
· Was laird himsel.
• A bonie lass, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame : "She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,
In Hornbook's care ; • Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
• To hide it there.
"That's just a swatch o’Hornbook's way ;
An's weel paid for't ; *Yet stops me o'my lawfu' prey,
• Wi' his d-mn'd dirt :
“But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot,
"As dead's a herrin: "Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
'He gets his fairin!'
But just as he began to tell,
Which rais'd us baith :
And sae did Death,
THE BRIGS OF AYR,
Inscribed to J. B*********, Esq. Ayr.
Føe simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
When B********* befriends his humble name,
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-worn 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 smoord 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 noon-tide
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 route,
When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,
• A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,
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, Sowe fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.
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 very sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly, Gothic bulk as you.
* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.