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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 gude Burgh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection.
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 gude Burgh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection.
AULD BRIG.
O ye, my dear remember'd, ancient yealings,
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings:
Ye worthy Provosses and mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay;
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye donce Conveeners,
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners;
Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town;
Ye godly brethren, of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gae our hurdies to the smiters;
(And what would now be strange) ye godly Writers:
And ye douce fock I've born aboon the broo,
Here 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 degenerate race!
Nae langer Rev'fend Men, their country's glory,
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story!
Nae langer thristy Citizens and douce,
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house;
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,
The herriment and ruin o' the country;
Men, three parts made by Tailors and by Barbere,
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d—d new brigs and harbours!
O ye, my dear remember'd, ancient yealings,
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings:
Ye worthy Provosses and mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay;
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye donce Conveeners,
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners;
Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town;
Ye godly brethren, of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gae our hurdies to the smiters;
(And what would now be strange) ye godly Writers:
And ye douce fock I've born aboon the broo,
Here 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 degenerate race!
Nae langer Rev'fend Men, their country's glory,
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story!
Nae langer thristy Citizens and douce,
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house;
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,
The herriment and ruin o' the country;
Men, three parts made by Tailors and by Barbere,
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d—d new brigs and harbours!
