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lishimaclaver might been said, 8, if sprites had blood to shed,

but all before their sight, ear'd in order bright: ring stream they featly dancer port on their various dresses els db Perso

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 ev'ry arch ;

chanc'd his new come neebor took his e'e,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mein,
He, down the water, gives bim this guideen:-

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.

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, tormless 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 feelings wi' the view
Of sic an ugly, gothic hulk as you.

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This inony a year I've stood the flood an' tide;

* A noted ford just above the Auld Brig.

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,
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 baunted Garpal* draws his feeble source,
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes,
In mony a torrent down his sna'broo rowes;
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;
And from Glenbuck,t down to the Ratton-key,
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'te 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;

* The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the west of Scotland, where those fancyscaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.

† The source of the river Ayr.
I A small landing place above the large kr

Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest,
With order, symmetry, or taste, unblest;
Forms like some bedium-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 maide, 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 mty they expire, unbless'd with resurrec-



Oye, 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 righteousuess 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 born aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do? How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration; And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen’rate race! Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 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;
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers,
Wha waste your wheel-hain'd gear on dd new

Brigs and Harbours !


Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough, And muckle

inair than ye can make to through, As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle; But under favor of 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. 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 ower hops an' raisins, Or gather'a 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.

What farther clishmaclaver might 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 danced: Bright to the moon their various dresses glan,

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