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(See full text) Inscribed to John Ballantyne, Esq., Ayr * * * * * | |
| Unknown and poor, simplicity’s reward, | |
| Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, | |
| By whim inspired, or haply prest wi’ care, | |
| He left his bed, and took his wayward route, | 5 |
| And down by Simpson’s wheeled the left-about: | |
| Whether impelled by all-directing Fate | |
| To witness what I after shall narrate; | |
| Or whether, rapt in meditation high, | |
| He wandered out he knew not where or why. | 10 |
| The drowsy Dungeon clock had numbered two, | |
| And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true; | |
| The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar, | |
| Through the still night dashed hoarse along the shore. | |
| All else was hushed as Nature’s closéd e’e; | 15 |
| 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; | 20 |
| Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air, | |
| Swift as the gos drives on the wheeling hare. | |
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| Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, | |
| The ither flutters o’er the rising piers: | |
| Our warlock Rhymer instantly descried | 25 |
| 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 even the very deils they brawly ken them.) | 30 |
| Auld Brig appeared of ancient Pictish race, | |
| The very wrinkles Gothic in his face: | |
| He seemed as he wi’ Time had warstled lang, | |
| Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. | |
| New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| It chanced his new-come neebor took his e’e, | |
| And e’en a vexed and angry heart had he! | |
| Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, | |
| He, down the water, gies him this guid-e’en:— | |
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AULD BRIG I doubt na, frien’, ye ’ll think ye ’re nae sheep-shank, | 45 |
| 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 whigmaleeries in your noddle. | 50 |
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NEW BRIG Auld Vandal, ye but shew your little mense, | |
| Just much about it wi’ your scanty sense. | |
| Will your poor, narrow footpath of a street,— | |
| Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet,— | |
| Your ruined, formless bulk o’ stane and lime, | 55 |
| Compare wi’ bonny brigs o’ modern time? | |
| There ’s men o’ taste would tak the Ducat Stream, | |
| Though they should cast the very sark and swim, | |
| Ere they would grate their feelings wi’ the view | |
| Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. | 60 |
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AULD BRIG Conceited gowk, puffed up wi’ windy pride! | |
| This monie a year I ’ve stood the flood and 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, | 65 |
| But twa-three winters will inform ye better. | |
| When heavy, dark, continued, a’-day rains | |
| Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains | |
| When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, | |
| Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil, | 70 |
| Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, | |
| Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, | |
| Aroused by blustering winds and spotting thowes, | |
| In monie a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes; | |
| While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, | 75 |
| Sweeps dams and mills and brigs, a’ to the gate; | |
| And from Glenbuck down to the Ratton-key | |
| Auld Ayr is just one lengthened tumbling sea,— | |
| Then down ye ’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! | |
| And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies: | 80 |
| A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, | |
| That Architecture’s noble art is lost! | |
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NEW BRIG 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, | 85 |
| Hanging with threatening jut, like precipices; | |
| O’erarching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, | |
| Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves: | |
| Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, | |
| With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; | 90 |
| Forms like some bedlam statuary’s dream, | |
| The crazed creations of misguided whim; | |
| Forms might be worshipped on the bended knee, | |
| And still the second dread command be free, | |
| Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. | 95 |
| Mansions that would disgrace the building taste | |
| Of any mason reptile, bird or beast; | |
| Fit only for a doited monkish race, | |
| Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; | |
| Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion | 100 |
| That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion; | |
| Fancies that our good Brugh denies protection! | |
| And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection! * * * * * | |
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