The Brigs of Ayr

The Brigs of Ayr. An Eclogue. ----
Inscribed to John Ballantine Esq: Ayr.

The simple Bard rough at the rustic Plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough,
The chanting Linnet, or the mellow Thrush
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush,
The soaring Lark, the pershing Redbreast 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,
Be 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 labor hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?
No! tho' 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 some Patron's generous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ----
When B---ne befriends the humble name,
And hands the rustic Stranger up to Fame,
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss to give alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get their winter hap,
And thack an' raep secure the toil-won crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged ˆ up frae skaith
O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;
The bees rejoicing owre their Summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds and flowere[?] nect'rine 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' brunstane reek:NTSBRNp03357::

The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,
The wounded Covey reeling scatter wide;
The feater'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 flower 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 precedes the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. ----

'Twas that season, when a simple Bard,
Unknown and poor Simplicity's reward,
Ae night within the ancient Brugh of Ayr,
By whim imspir'd, or haply press'd wi' care,
He left his bed and took his wayward rout,
And down by Simpson's wheel'd the left about:
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate
To witness wha tI after shall narrate;
Or penitential pangs for former sins
Led him to rove by quondam Merran Din's;
Or whether rapt in meditation high,
He wander'd forth he knew not where nor why:)
The drowsy Steeple-Clock had number'd two
And Wallace-tow'r had sworn the fact was true;
The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar,
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along ths shor
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! before our Bardie's wond'ring een
The ˆ Brigs of Ayrs twa guardian Sprites are seen

When lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings are heard,
Two dusky forms dart thro the midnight air
Swift as the Gos drives on the wheeling Hare;
Ane on th' auld Brig his fairy shape uprears,
The tither flutters o'er the rising Piers;
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd
The Sprites that o'er the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That Bard's 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 wrestl'd lang,
Yet teughly doure he bade an unco bang.
New Brig was busket 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' whirlegigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking round wi' anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;
It chanc'd his new-come Neebor took his e'e,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heard had he!
Wi' thyveless sneer to see his modish mien,
He down the water gies him this gudeen ----

Auld Brig.

I doubtna, Frien, ye'll think ye're nae sheep shank,
Ance ye were streeket owre frae bank to bank;
But gin ye be a Brig as auld as me,
Tho' saith, that date I doubt ye'll never see,
They'll be gis that day come, I'll wad a boddle,
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.

New Brig

New Brig. ----

Auld Vandal, ye but shaw your little mense
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense:
Will your auld, formless bulk o' stane an' lime
Compare wi' bony Brigs o' modern time?
There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat Stream,
Though they should cast the vera sark an' swim
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view
O' sic an ugly, gothic hulk as you.

Auld Brig. ----

Conceited Gowk! pufft up wi' windy pride!
This mony a year I've stan't the flood an' 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,
But twathree 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 its moorland course,
Or haunted Garpal draws its feeble source,
Arouz'd by blustring winds and spotted thowes,
In many a torrent down the Snaw-broo rowes;
AndWhile crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate,
Sweeps dams, an' milns, an' brigs a' to the gate;
And from Glenbuck, down 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 gumly 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 thanket that we've tint the gate o't !

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring Edifices,
Hanging wi' threatening jut like precipices:
O'erarching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring Coves,
Supporting roofs ---- fantastic, stony groves;
Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest
With Order, Symmetry, or Taste unblest;
Forms, like some bedlam Statuary's dream,
The craz'd craetions of misguided whim;
Forms might be workshipp'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 bigging taste
Of ony mason reptile, bird, or beast:
Fit only for a doyted, monkish race,
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace;
Or Coofs of later times who held the notion,
That sullen gloom was Sterling, true devotion:
Fancies that our Brugh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurection!

Auld Brig. ----

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealins,
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!
Ye worth Proveses, and mony a Bailie


Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay!
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douse Conveeners,
To whom our moderns are but Causey Cleaners!
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town!
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown
What meekly gae your hurdies to the Smiters!
And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers!
A' ye douse folk I've borne aboon teh broo,
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do!
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation
to see each melancholy alteration!
Nae longer Reverend men, their country's glory,
In plain, braid Scotch hold forth a plain, braid story;
 

Nae langer thrifty Citizens an' douse
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house;
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,
The herryment and ruin o' their country;
Men, three parts made by Taylors and by Barbers,
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d-mn'd new Brigs
and Harbours. ----

New Brig ----

Now haud you there! for faith ye've said eneugh,
An' muckle mair than ye can mak to through:
That's ay a string auld, doyted Graybeards harp on,
A topic for their peevishness to carp on.
As for yoru Priesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies an' 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 bodies,
I must needs say "Comparisons are odious."
In Ayr wag wits nae mair can have handle
To mouth, "A Citizen", a term of scandal;
Nae mair down street the Council Quorum waddles
With wigs like mainsails on their logger noddles:
No difference but bulkiest or tallest,
With comfortable Dulness in for ballast:
Nor shoals nor currents need a Pilot's caution,
For regularly slow, they only witness motion.

Men wha grew wise priggan owre hops and raisins,
Or gather'd liberal views in bonds and seisins:
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,
Had shor'd them wi' a glimmer of his lamp,
And would to Common Sense for once betray'd them,
Plain, kind Stupidity stept 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:
A down the glittering stream they featly danc'd,
Bright to the Moon their various dresses glanc'd;
They footed o'er the watry glass so neat
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet:
Whil arts of Minstelsey among them rung,
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.

O had McLauchlan, thairm-inspiring Sage,
Been there to hear this heav'nly Band engage,
When through his dear Strathspeys they bore with highland rage
Or when they touch'd old Scotia's melting airs,
The Lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares,
How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd,
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer tough inspir'd!
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,
But all the Soul of Music's Self was heard:
Harmonious concert run in ev'ry part,
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 lillies crown'd,
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound.
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hadn with Spring:
Then crown'd with flowery hay come Rural Joy,
And Summer with his fervid-beaming eye:
All-chearing Plenty with his flowing horn
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn:
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show,
By Hospitality with cloudless brow.