'Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole 5 now; Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, And says, Ye need na yoke the pleugh, They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 'Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' 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. 'An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, 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. The grave-digger. VOL. I. E 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 long hame, To hide it there. 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, 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, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Which rais'd us baith: And sae did Death. I took the way that pleas'd mysel, THE BRIGS OF AYR. INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ. THE simple bard, rough at the rustic plough, The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, hill; Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, And train❜d to arms in stern misfortune's field, "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' flowers' 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 smoor'd wi' brimstone reek: The thundering guns are heard on every 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, [rays. While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the "Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whom 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 :) 1 A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. The drowsy Dungeon-clock2 had number'd two, Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can explain them, The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, The gos-hawk, or falcon. |