| |
| THE SIMPLE Bard, rough at the rustic plough, | |
| Learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry 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, | 5 |
| 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— | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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 gen’rous care he trace, | |
| Skill’d in the secret, to bestow with grace; | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; | |
| Potatoe-bings are snuggèd up frae skaith | |
| O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath; | |
| The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils, | |
| Unnumber’d buds an’ flow’rs’ delicious spoils, | 30 |
| 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 ev’ry side, | |
| The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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 noontide blaze, | 45 |
| While thick the gosamour 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, | 50 |
| He left his bed, and took his wayward route, | |
| And down by Simpson’s 1 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, | 55 |
| He wander’d out, he knew not where or why:) | |
| The drowsy Dungeon-clock 2 had number’d two, and Wallace Tower 3 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 closèd e’e; | 60 |
| 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 list’ning Bard, | |
| The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard; | 65 |
| Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air; | |
| Swift as the gos 4 drives on the wheeling hare; | |
| Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, | |
| The other flutters o’er the rising piers: | |
| Our warlock Rhymer instantly dexcried | 70 |
| 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). | 75 |
| “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, | 80 |
| 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; | 85 |
| It chanc’d his new-come neibor 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:— | |
| |
AULD BRIG
“I doubt na, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheepshank, | 90 |
| Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank! | |
| But gin ye be a brig as auld as me— | |
| Tho’ faith, that date, I doubt, ye’ll never see— | |
| There’ll be, if that day come, I’ll wad a boddle, | |
| Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle.” | 95 |
| |
NEW BRIG
“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 and lime, | 100 |
| Compare wi’ bonie brigs o’ modern time? | |
| There’s men of taste wou’d tak the Ducat stream, 5 | |
| Tho’ they should cast the very sark and swim, | |
| E’er they would grate their feelings wi’ the view | |
| O’ sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.” | 105 |
| |
AULD BRIG
“Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride! | |
| This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide; | |
| And tho’ 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, | 110 |
| 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; | 115 |
| Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. | |
| Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, | |
| Aroused by blustering winds an’ spotting thowes, | |
| In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; | |
| While crashing ice, borne on the rolling spate, | 120 |
| Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate; | |
| And from Glenbuck, 6 down to the Ratton-key, 7 | |
| Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea— | |
| Then down ye’ll hurl, (deil nor ye never rise!) | |
| And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies! | 125 |
| A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, | |
| That Architecture’s noble art is lost!” | |
| |
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, | 130 |
| Hanging with threat’ning jut, like precipices; | |
| O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, | |
| Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves; | |
| Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest | |
| With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; | 135 |
| Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream, | |
| The craz’d creations of misguided whim; | |
| Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee, | |
| And still the second dread command be free; | |
| Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea! | 140 |
| 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 later times, wha held the notion, | 145 |
| That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion: | |
| Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, | |
| And soon may they expire, unblest wi’ resurrection!” | |
| |
AULD BRIG
“O ye, my dear-remember’d, ancient yealings, | |
| Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! | 150 |
| Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, | |
| Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil aye; | |
| Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, | |
| To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners | |
| Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town; | 155 |
| ye godly Brethren o’ 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 borne aboon the broo, | |
| Were ye but here, what would ye say or do? | 160 |
| How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, | |
| To see each melancholy alteration; | |
| And, agonising, curse the time and place | |
| When ye begat the base degen’rate race! | |
| Nae langer rev’rend men, their country’s glory, | 165 |
| 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; | 170 |
| Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, | |
| Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on d—’d new brigs and harbours!” | |
| |
NEW BRIG
“Now haud you there! for faith ye’ve said enough, | |
| And muckle mair than ye can mak to through. | |
| As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, | 175 |
| 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-warld squad, | |
| I must needs say, comparisons are odd. | 180 |
| 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 and raisins, | 185 |
| 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.” | 190 |
| |
| What farther clish-ma-claver aight 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 glittering stream they featly danc’d; | 195 |
| 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. | 200 |
| |
| O had M’Lauchlan, 8 thairm-inspiring sage, | |
| Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, | |
| When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage; | |
| Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs, | |
| The lover’s raptured joys or bleeding cares; | 205 |
| How would his Highland lug been nobler fir’d, | |
| And ev’n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d! | |
| No guess could tell what instrument appear’d, | |
| But all the soul of Music’s self was heard; | |
| Harmonious concert rung in every part, | 210 |
| While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart. | |
| |
| The Genius of the Stream in front appears, | |
| A venerable Chief advanc’d in years; | |
| His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d, | |
| His manly leg with garter-tangle bound. | 215 |
| Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, | |
| Sweet female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; | |
| Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy, | |
| And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye; | |
| All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, | 220 |
| Led yellow Autumn wreath’d with nodding corn; | |
| Then Winter’s time-bleach’d locks did hoary show, | |
| By Hospitality with cloudless brow: | |
| Next followed Courage with his martial stride, | |
| From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide; 9 | 225 |
| Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, | |
| A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair; 10 | |
| Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, | |
| From simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode: 11 | |
| Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath, | 230 |
| To rustic Agriculture did bequeath | |
| The broken, iron instruments of death: | |
| At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. | |
