• That's juft a fwatch o' Hornbook's way, Thus goes he on from day to day,
· Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,
Yet ftops me o' my lawfu' prey,
But hark! 1'll tell you of a plot, Tho' dinna ye be speakin o't;
'I'll nail the felf-conceited Sot,
'As dead's a herrin:
'Nieft time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin!'
But juft as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee fhort hour ayout the twal,
• Which rais'd us baith:
I took the way that pleased myfel,
Infcribed to J. B****, Esq. AYR,
HE fimple Bard, rough at the ruftic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the fetting fun, fweet in the green thorn
The foaring lark, the perching red-breast fhrill,
Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the
Shall he, nurst in the Peafant's lowly shed,
To hardy independence bravely bred,
By early poverty to hardship fteel'd,
And train'd to arms in ftern Misfortune's field,
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The fervile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal foul of dedicating Profe?
No! though his artlefs ftrains he rudely fings,
And throws his hands uncouthly o'er the ftrings,
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,
Fame, honeft Fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if fome Patron's gen rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the fecret, to bestow with grace;
When B******** befriends his humble name,
And hands the ruftic Stranger up to fame,
With heart-felt throws his grateful bofom fwells,
The godlike blifs, to give, alone excels.
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
And thack and rape fecure the toil-won crap;
Potatoe-bings are fnugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting, frofty breath;
The bees rejoicing o'er their fummer-toils
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs delicious fpoils,
Seal'd up with frugal care in maffive, waxen piles,
Are doom'd by man,
that tyrant o'er the weak,
The death o' devils, fmoor'd wi' brimftone reek:
The thundering guns are heard on every fide,
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 favage, ruthlefs deeds!)
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings.
Except perhaps the Robin's whiftling glee,
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree:
The hoary morns precede the funny days,
Mild, calm, ferene, wide-fpreads the noon-tide blaze
While thick the goffamour waves wanton in the
"Twas in that feason, when a fimple bard Unknown and power, fimplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim infpir'd, or haply preft 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 what I after fhall narrate;
Or whether wrapt in meditation high,
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why)
The drowsy Dungeon-clock ↑ had number'd two,
And Wallace-tow'r † had fworn the fact was true:
The tide-fwoln Firth, with fullen founding roar
Through the ftill night dafh d hoarfe along the fhore:
All elfe was hufh'd as Nature's clofed e'e;
The filent moon fhone high o'er tow'r and tree;
The chilly froft, beneath the filver beam,
Crept, gently-crufting, o'er the glittering fream.
* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.
When, lo! on either hand the lift'ning Bard,
The clanging fough of whistling wings is heard ;.
Two dufky forms dart thro' the midnight air,
Swift as the Gos* drives on the wheeling hare;
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy fhape uprears,
The ither flutters o'er the rifing piers:
Our Warlock Rhymer instantly defcry'd
The Sprites that o'er the Brigs of Ayr prefide:
(That Bards are fecond-fighted is nae joke,
And ken the lingo of the fp ritual folk;
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them,
And ev❜n the vera deils they brawly kẹn them.)
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face :
He feem'd as he wi' time had wrafl'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 fmooth's a bead,
Wi' virls and whirligigums at the head.
The Goth was talking round with anxious fearch,
Spying the time-worn-flaws in every arch;
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!
Wi' thieveless fneer to fee his modish mien,
He, down the water, gies him this guideen-
*The gos-hawk, or falcon.
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