He left his bed, and took his wayward route,
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 :) The drowsy Dungeon-clockt had number'd two, And Wallace Tow'rt 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 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 Gost 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 seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.

*A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.
The two steeples.

The gos hawk, or falcon.

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 him this guideen:-

AULD BRIG.

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

AULD BRIG.

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride! nony 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 haunted 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, 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!

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, 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.

A small landing place above the large k

Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest,
With order, symmetry, or taste, unblest;
Forms like some bedlum-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 resurrec-
tion!

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:
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;

A'

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 d-d new Brigs and Harbours!

NEW BRIG.

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 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.
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'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.

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 glaze