They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They make enow themsels to vex them;
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them.
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country-fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang and restless:
An' e'en their sports, their balls, an' races,
Their galloping thro' public places.
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches;
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jades thegither.
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night.
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan:
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
Inscribed to J. B*********, Esq. Ayr.
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,
Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, 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 sonie patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace;
When B********* befriends his humble name,
And hauds the rustic stranger up to fane,
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The god-like bliss, to give, alone excels.
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hep,
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap;
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumbered 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 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 hoary morns precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide blaze,
'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard,
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward;
Ae night, within the ancient burgh of Ayr,
By whim inspir'd, or haply press'd wi' care:
He left his bed, and took his wayward route,
And down by Simpson's* wheel'd 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 nor why :)
The drowsy Dungeon-clock† had numbered two,
And Wallace Tow'rt 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 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 glittering stream-
When lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings he heard;
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air,
Swift as the Gos‡ drives on the wheeling hare;
Ane on th' 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 o' 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 vera wrinkles Gothic in his face:
He seemed 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 an' whirlygigums at the head.
*A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.
steeples.
The goshawk, or falcon.
The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;
It chanc'd his new come neebour 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, gives him this guide'en :-
I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank
Ance ye were streekit o'er from bank to bank!
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me,
Tho' 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' bonie Brigs o' modern time?"
There's men o' taste would take the Duckat stream,
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim,
Ere they would grate their feeelings wi' the view
Csic 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;
An' 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,
But twa-three winters will inform you 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,
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source,
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes,
In many a torrent down his sna'broo rowes
A noted ford just above the Auld Brig.
The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the west of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring being known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinacious! to inhabit.
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
Sweeps 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-deil 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 taste, unblest;
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.
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
That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion;
Fancies that our guid Burgh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unbless'd with resurrection!
AULD BRIG.
O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings,
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths of righteousness did toil ay;
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveeners,
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners;
Ye godly Councils wha hae bless'd this town;
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers:
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,
Vere ye but here, what would ye say or do?
*The source of the river Ayr. Jace above the large key.
|