The Auld Brig-stane.
[James Parker.—Here printed for the first time.]
It stretches o'er the castle-burn, whar three farms march,
An' a weel-kent trystin' place o' play was its auld broken arch;—
The burnie is but snia', an' arch it has but ane—
Though arch it canna weel be ca'd—a braid flag-stane,
But there's nae brig sae dear to me as the auld brig-stane!
But yet it had a buirdly look, some score o' years ago,
An' the wee burn seemed a river then, as it rowed down below;
An' a bauld bairn was he, in the merry days lang gane,
Wha waded through an' through 'aneath this auld brig-stane—
O! there's nae brig that e'er I saw like the auld brig-stane!
Though brigs o' stately mason-wark I've been out o'er since then,
An' aqueducts an' viaducts o'er river an' o'er glen;
There's nane, amang them a', I'd gang sae far to see, again,
As the first my wee feet toddled on—the auld brig-stane—
For there's nae brig sae dear to me as the auld brig-stane.
O! childhood is a pleasant time;—'tis then when ilka joy
That comes an' gangs, flees o'er our head begirt wi' nae alloy,
An' lichtly as the simmer clud sae passes a' its pain,
O! my life's simmer morn was spent by the auld brig-stane,
An' that's the way I loe't sae weel—the auld brig-stane.