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I doubt na, frien,' ye'll think ye're nae fheep-fhank,
Ance ye were ftreekit owre frae bank to bank!
But gin ye be a Brig as auld as me,

Tho' faith, that date, I doubt, yell never fee;
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle,
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.

NEW BR I G.

Auld Vandal, ye but fhew your little menfe,
Juft 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' ftane and lime,
Compare wi' bonie Brigs o' modern time?
There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat-ftream
Tho' they fhould caft the vera fark an' swim,
E'er they would grate their feelings with the view
Of fic an ugly Gothic hulk as ¡you.

AULD BRIG.

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This mony a year I've ftood the flood an' tide;
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm fair forfairn,
I'll be a Brig when ye're a fhapeless cairn!
As yet ye little ken about the matter,
But twa-three winters will inform ye better.

A noted ford juft above the Auld Brig.

*

When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;
When from the hills where fprings the brawling Coil,
Or ftately Lugar's moffy fountains boil,

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpal* draws his feeble source,
Arous'd by bluftering winds an' spotting thowes,
In mony a torrent down the fnaw-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 Ratton-key,‡
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling fea;
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor you never rise!
And dafh the gumlie jaups up to the pouring fkics
A leffon fadly teaching, to your cost,
That Architecture's noble art is loft!

NEW BRIG.

Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say o't! The L―d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, ghaftly, ghaift-alluring edefices,

Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices;

* The Banks of Garpal-Water is one of the few places in the Weft of Scotland where thofe fancy-caring beings, known by the name of Ghaifts, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.

†The fource of the river of Ayr.

A fmall landing-place above the large key.

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O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-infpiring coves,
Supporting roofs, fantaftic, ftony groves:
Windows and doors in nameless sculptures dreft,
With order, fymmetry, or tafte unbleft;
Forms like fome bedlam Statuary's dream,
The craz'd creations of mifguided whim;
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee,
And still the fecond dread command be free,

Manfions that would difgrace the building-taste
Of any mafon, reptile, bird or beast;

Fit only for a doited Monkish race,
Or frosty maids forfworn the dear embrace,
Or Cuifs of later times, wha held the notion,
That fullen gloom was sterling true devotion:
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection,
And foon may they expire, unbleft with resurrection!

AULD BRIG.

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings,

Were
ye but here to fhare my wounded feelings!
Ye worthy Provefes, an' mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths o' righteoufnefs did toil ay;
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners,
To whom our moderns are but caufey-cleaners;
Ye godly Councils, wha hae bleft this town ;
Ye godly Brethren o' the facred gown,
Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writer::

A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,
Were ye but here, what would you fay or do!
How would your fpirits groan in deep vexation,
To fee each melancholy alteration;

And, agonizing, curfe the time and place
When ye begat the bafe, degen'rate race!
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory,
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story;
Nae longer thrifty Citizens, an' douce,
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council House;
But ftaumrel, corkey-headed, graceless Gentry,
The herryment and ruin of the country;

Men, three-parts made by Taylors and by Barbers,
Wha waste your weel hain'd gear
on d-d new Brigs

and Harbours.

NEW BRIG.

Now haud you there! for faith ye've faid enough,
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through.
As for your Priesthood, I fhall fay but little,
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle :
But, under favour o' your langer beard,
Abuse o' Magiftrates might weel be spar'd ;
To liken them to your auld-warld squad,'
I must needs fay, comparisons are odd.
In Ayr, Wag wits-nae mair can have a handle
To mouth A Citizen,' a term o' scandal:
Nae mair the Council waddles down the freet,
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;

Men wha grew wife priggin owre hops an' raifins,
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bond and Seifins.
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,
Had fhor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp,
And would to Common-fenfe for once betray'd them,
Plain, dull Stupidity ftept kindly in to aid them.

What farther clifhmaclaver might been faid,
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed,
No man can tell; but, all before their fight,
A fairy train appear'd in order bright:
Adown the glittering ftream they featly danc'd ;
Bright to the moon their various dreffes glanc'd:
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass fo neat,
The infant ice fcarce bent beneath their feet:
While arts of Minstrelfy among them rung,
And foul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties fung.

O had McLauchlan,* thairm-infpiring Sage,
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with
Highland rage;

Or when they ftruck old Scotia's melting airs,
The lovers raptur'd joys, or bleeding cares;
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd,
And ev❜n his matchlefs hand with finer touch infpir'd!

* A well-known performer of Scottish mufic on the violin.

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