Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek;
The thund'ring 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 boary morns precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide
blaze, [rays. While the thick gossamer waves wanton in the "Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brough of Ayr, By whom inspir'd or haply prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward ront, 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'rt had sworn the fact was true:
The tide-swol'n Firth, with sullen-sounding roar,
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore:
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 glitt'ring stream.
When lo! on either hand the list'ning bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air,
Swift as the goss‡ drives on the wheeling air.
A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.
Ane on the 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 no joke,
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;
Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can explain them,
And ev❜n the very deils they brawly ken them.)
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
The very 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 hands 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 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 :
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,
Though 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.
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' bonnie Brigs o' modern time?
There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream,*
Though they should cast the vera sark and swim,
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.
Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide;
And though 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' deep'ning 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 its feeble source,
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting tho wes,
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes;
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
Sweep dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;
And from Glenbuck,+ down to the Ratton key,t
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea;
Then down ye'll hurl, diel 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!
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 state unblest;
The banks of Garpel Water is one of the few places in the west of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the
of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.
+ The source of the river Ayr.
A small landing place above the large key.
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream,
The craz'd creations of misguided whim;
Forms might be worship'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;
Fit only for a doited monkish race,
Of frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace,
Or Cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion;
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection!
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!
O ye, my dear remember'd ancient yealings,
Were ye but here to share my wounded feeling!
Ye worthy Provesses, an' mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay;
Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners,
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 born 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!
Na 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 barbers,
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d-d new
Brigs and Harbours!
Now hand you there! for faith ye've said eneugh,
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 favour o' your langer beard,
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd:
To liken them to your auld-ward 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 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 chishmaclaver 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 heav'nly 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;
* A well-known performer of Scotish music on the violin.
|