For other versions of this work, see The Brigs of Ayr (Full version).
The Brigs of Ayr.
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thornbush,
The soaring lark, thic piercing red-breast shrill.
Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lonely shed,
To hardy Independence bravely bred,
By 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 labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the vepal soul of dedicating Prose!
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spies of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When B. . . . . . . . . befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike blies, to give, alone excels.
. . . . . . . . .
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath;
The boss rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious 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' deevils, smoor'd wi' brunstane reek!
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,
The wounded coveys recling, scatter wide:
The feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie,
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage he:
(What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs;
Nae nair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee,
Proud of the height of some but hauf-lang tree;
The hoary mern precedes the sunny days,
Md. calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays.
'Twas in that season when a simple Bard,
Unknown, and poor, simplicity's reward,
Ae night, within the ancient Brugh o' Ayr,
By whim inspir'd, or hap'ly prest wi' care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward rout,
And down by Simpson's[1] wheel 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 or why).
The drowsy Dungeon-clock had number'd two,
And Wallace's Tow'r[2] had sworn the fact was true;
The tide-swoln Frith, with sullen sounding roar,
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore:
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed ee;
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 sug of whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart throʻ the midnight air,
Swift as the Goss[3] drives on the wheeling hare;
Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers.
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd
The Spʻrits that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside:
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,
And ken the lingo of the spiritual folk;
Fays, Spankies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them;
And even the very Diels they brawly ken them):
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pietish race,
The very wrinkles Gothic in his face;
He seem'd as he is time had warsl'd lang,
Yet, toughly 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 smooth's a bead,
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking round wi' anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;
It chane'd his new come neibour took his ee,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he:
Wi' thieveless sheer to see his modish mein,
He, down the water, gies him thus gude-e'en.—
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thornbush,
The soaring lark, thic piercing red-breast shrill.
Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lonely shed,
To hardy Independence bravely bred,
By 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 labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the vepal soul of dedicating Prose!
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spies of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When B. . . . . . . . . befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike blies, to give, alone excels.
. . . . . . . . .
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath;
The boss rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious 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' deevils, smoor'd wi' brunstane reek!
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,
The wounded coveys recling, scatter wide:
The feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie,
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage he:
(What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs;
Nae nair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee,
Proud of the height of some but hauf-lang tree;
The hoary mern precedes the sunny days,
Md. calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays.
'Twas in that season when a simple Bard,
Unknown, and poor, simplicity's reward,
Ae night, within the ancient Brugh o' Ayr,
By whim inspir'd, or hap'ly prest wi' care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward rout,
And down by Simpson's[1] wheel 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 or why).
The drowsy Dungeon-clock had number'd two,
And Wallace's Tow'r[2] had sworn the fact was true;
The tide-swoln Frith, with sullen sounding roar,
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore:
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed ee;
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 sug of whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart throʻ the midnight air,
Swift as the Goss[3] drives on the wheeling hare;
Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers.
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd
The Spʻrits that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside:
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,
And ken the lingo of the spiritual folk;
Fays, Spankies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them;
And even the very Diels they brawly ken them):
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pietish race,
The very wrinkles Gothic in his face;
He seem'd as he is time had warsl'd lang,
Yet, toughly 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 smooth's a bead,
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking round wi' anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;
It chane'd his new come neibour took his ee,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he:
Wi' thieveless sheer to see his modish mein,
He, down the water, gies him thus gude-e'en.—
AULD BRIG.
I doubtra' frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank,
Ance ye were streakit out frae bank to bank;
But gin ye be a brig as lang as me,
Tho' faith that day, I doubt, we'll never see,
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle,
Some fewer whigmelceries in your noddle.
I doubtra' frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank,
Ance ye were streakit out frae bank to bank;
But gin ye be a brig as lang as me,
Tho' faith that day, I doubt, we'll never see,
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle,
Some fewer whigmelceries in your noddle.
NEW BRIG.
Auld Vendal, ye but shew your little mense,
Just much about it wi' your anty sense;
Will your poor narrow foot-path o' a street,
Where twa-wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,
Your ruin'd formless bulk ostane and lime,
Compare wi' bonny Brigs o' modern time?
There's men o' taste wad tal the Ducat stream[4],
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim,
Ere they wad grate their feelings wi' the view
O' sic an ugly Gothic bulk as you,
Auld Vendal, ye but shew your little mense,
Just much about it wi' your anty sense;
Will your poor narrow foot-path o' a street,
Where twa-wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,
Your ruin'd formless bulk ostane and lime,
Compare wi' bonny Brigs o' modern time?
There's men o' taste wad tal the Ducat stream[4],
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim,
Ere they wad grate their feelings wi' the view
O' sic an ugly Gothic bulk as you,
AULD BRIG.
Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This mony a year I've stood the flood and tide;
And tho' wi' crazy cild I'm sair for fairn,
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 whare springs the brawling Coll
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,
Or whare the Greenock winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpel[5] draws his feeble source,
Arous'd by blust'ring winds, and spotting thowes,
In many a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
Sweep dams, and mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate:
And from Glenbuck[6] down to the Ratton-Key[7],
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea:
Then down ye hurl,—deil nor ye never rise;
And dash the jumblie jaups up to the pouring skies:
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,
That Architecture's noble art is lost.
Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This mony a year I've stood the flood and tide;
And tho' wi' crazy cild I'm sair for fairn,
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 whare springs the brawling Coll
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,
Or whare the Greenock winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpel[5] draws his feeble source,
Arous'd by blust'ring winds, and spotting thowes,
In many a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
Sweep dams, and mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate:
And from Glenbuck[6] down to the Ratton-Key[7],
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea:
Then down ye hurl,—deil nor ye never rise;
And dash the jumblie 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 o't!
The D—l bethankit that we've tint the gate oʻt:
Gaunt, ghastily, ghaist-alluring edifices,
Hanging, with threat'ning, just like precipieces,
O'er-arching mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,
'Supporting roof's fantastic, stony groves:
Windows and floors in nameless sculptures drest;
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;
Forms, like some bedlam-statuary dream,
The craz'd creations of misguided whim:
Forms might be worship'd on the bended knee,
And still the second dread command be free,
Their likeness is not found in earth, or 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 gude Burgh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection.
Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say o't!
The D—l bethankit that we've tint the gate oʻt:
Gaunt, ghastily, ghaist-alluring edifices,
Hanging, with threat'ning, just like precipieces,
O'er-arching mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,
'Supporting roof's fantastic, stony groves:
Windows and floors in nameless sculptures drest;
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;
Forms, like some bedlam-statuary dream,
The craz'd creations of misguided whim:
Forms might be worship'd on the bended knee,
And still the second dread command be free,
Their likeness is not found in earth, or 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 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!
NEW BRIG.
Now hand you there! for faith ye've aid enow,
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through,
And for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:
But, under favour of your langer beard,
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd;
To liken them to your auldwarl's quad,
I must needs say, comparisons are odd.
In Ayr, Wag-wits hae mair can hae a handle
To mouth a Citizen, a term o' scandal;
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,
In a' the pomp of ignorant conceit;
Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops and raisins,
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins.
If hap'ly Knowledge, on a random tramp,
Had shor'd them with a glimmer o' his lamp,
And wad to Common-sense for once betray'd them,
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.
. . . . . . . . .
What farther clishimaclaver might have been said
What bloody wars, if Sp'rits 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 danc'd
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd
While arts of minstrelsy among then rung.
And soul-enobling Bards heroic dirties sung!
O had M'Lauchlan[8], thairm-inspiring Sage,
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with Highland rage!
Or when they struck 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 touch inspir'd
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,
But all the soul of Music's self was heard;
Harmonious concert rung 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 hand with Spring:
Then crown'd with flowery bay, came Rural Joy,
And Summer, with his fervid beaming eye:
All-chearing Plenty, with her 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.
Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride,
From whence the Feal wild woody coverts hide:
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,
A female form, came from the towers of Stair:
Learning and worth in equal measures trode,
From simple Catrine, their long-liv'd abode:
They footed o'er the watery glass so neat,
The infant Ice, scarce bent beneath their feet.
Last white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazle wreath
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken iron instruments of death:
At sight of which, our Sp'rits forgat their kindling wrath.
Now hand you there! for faith ye've aid enow,
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through,
And for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:
But, under favour of your langer beard,
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd;
To liken them to your auldwarl's quad,
I must needs say, comparisons are odd.
In Ayr, Wag-wits hae mair can hae a handle
To mouth a Citizen, a term o' scandal;
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,
In a' the pomp of ignorant conceit;
Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops and raisins,
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins.
If hap'ly Knowledge, on a random tramp,
Had shor'd them with a glimmer o' his lamp,
And wad to Common-sense for once betray'd them,
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.
. . . . . . . . .
What farther clishimaclaver might have been said
What bloody wars, if Sp'rits 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 danc'd
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd
While arts of minstrelsy among then rung.
And soul-enobling Bards heroic dirties sung!
O had M'Lauchlan[8], thairm-inspiring Sage,
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with Highland rage!
Or when they struck 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 touch inspir'd
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,
But all the soul of Music's self was heard;
Harmonious concert rung 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 hand with Spring:
Then crown'd with flowery bay, came Rural Joy,
And Summer, with his fervid beaming eye:
All-chearing Plenty, with her 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.
Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride,
From whence the Feal wild woody coverts hide:
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,
A female form, came from the towers of Stair:
Learning and worth in equal measures trode,
From simple Catrine, their long-liv'd abode:
They footed o'er the watery glass so neat,
The infant Ice, scarce bent beneath their feet.
Last white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazle wreath
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken iron instruments of death:
At sight of which, our Sp'rits forgat their kindling wrath.
- ↑ A noted Tavern at the Auld Brig-end
- ↑ The two Steeples.
- ↑ The Goss-hawk, or Falcon,
- ↑ A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.
- ↑ The banks of Garpel-Water is one of the few places in the Wst of Scotland, where those fancy-scarings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.
- ↑ The source of the river of Ayr.
- ↑ A small landing place above the large quay.
- ↑ A well-known Professor of Scottish Music.