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'Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole 5 now;
Quo' I, If that the news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white and bonie,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They'll ruin Johnie!'

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,

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And says, Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards 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 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,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,

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,
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't;
I'll nail the self-conceited sot,

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
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,

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.
BANKER IN 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 perching red-breast shrill,
Or deep-ton'd 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 the bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some patron's generous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When Ballantine befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes 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-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,
And Wallace Tower 2 had sworn the fact was true:
The tide-swoln 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 tower and tree:
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream.
When, lo! on either hand the listening bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air,
Swift as the gos3 drives on the wheeling air.
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 nae joke,
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;

Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can explain them,
And ev❜n the vera 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 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 neebor took his e'e,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!
2 The two steeples.

The gos-hawk, or falcon.

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