He may do weel for a'he's done yet,But only-he's no just begun yet.
The Patron (sir,ye maun forgie me;
I winna lie,come what will o'me),On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,He's just-nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant,He downa see a poor man want;What's no his ain,he winna tak it;
What ance he says,he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,Till aft his guidness is abus'd;And rascals whiles that do him wrang,Ev'n that,he does na mind it lang;As master,landlord,husband,father,He does na fail his part in either.
But then,nae thanks to him for a'that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca'that;
It's naething but a milder feature Of our poor,sinfu'corrupt nature:
Ye'll get the best o'moral works,'Mang black Gentoos,and pagan Turks,Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,The gentleman in word and deed,It's no thro'terror of damnation;It's just a carnal inclination.
Morality,thou deadly bane,Thy tens o'thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope,whase stay an'trust is In moral mercy,truth,and justice!
No-stretch a point to catch a plack:
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal through the winnock frae a whore,But point the rake that taks the door;Be to the poor like ony whunstane,And haud their noses to the grunstane;Ply ev'ry art o'legal thieving;
No matter-stick to sound believing.
Learn three-mile pray'rs,an'half-mile graces,Wi'weel-spread looves,an'lang,wry faces;Grunt up a solemn,lengthen'd groan,And damn a'parties but your own;I'll warrant they ye're nae deceiver,A steady,sturdy,staunch believer.
O ye wha leave the springs o'Calvin,For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!
Ye sons of Heresy and Error,Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror,When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath.
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin,with his sweeping besom,Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him;While o'er the harp pale Misery moans,And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,Still louder shrieks,and heavier groans!
Your pardon,sir,for this digression:
I maist forgat my Dedication;
But when divinity comes 'cross me,My readers still are sure to lose me.
So,sir,you see 'twas nae daft vapour;
But I maturely thought it proper,When a'my works I did review,To dedicate them,sir,to you:
Because (ye need na tak it ill),I thought them something like yoursel'.
Then patronize them wi'your favor,And your petitioner shall ever-I had amaist said,ever pray,But that's a word I need na say;For prayin,I hae little skill o't,I'm baith dead-sweer,an'wretched ill o't;But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r,That kens or hears about you,sir-"May ne'er Misfortune's gowling bark,Howl thro'the dwelling o'the clerk!
May ne'er his genrous,honest heart,For that same gen'rous spirit smart!
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame,Till Hamiltons,at least a dizzen,Are frae their nuptial labours risen:
Five bonie lasses round their table,And sev'n braw fellows,stout an'able,To serve their king an'country weel,By word,or pen,or pointed steel!
May health and peace,with mutual rays,Shine on the ev'ning o'his days;Till his wee,curlie John's ier-oe,When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,The last,sad,mournful rites bestow!"I will not wind a lang conclusion,With complimentary effusion;But,whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours,I am,dear sir,with zeal most fervent,Your much indebted,humble servant.
But if (which Pow'rs above prevent)
That iron-hearted carl,Want,Attended,in his grim advances,By sad mistakes,and black mischances,While hopes,and joys,and pleasures fly him,Make you as poor a dog as I am,Your humble servant then no more;For who would humbly serve the poor?
But,by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n!
While recollection's pow'r is giv'n-
If,in the vale of humble life,The victim sad of fortune's strife,I,thro'the tender-gushing tear,Should recognise my master dear;If friendless,low,we meet together,Then,sir,your hand-my Friend and Brother!
Versified Note To Dr.Mackenzie,Mauchline Friday first's the day appointed By the Right Worshipful anointed,To hold our grand procession;To get a blad o'Johnie's morals,And taste a swatch o'Manson's barrels I'the way of our profession.
The Master and the Brotherhood Would a'be glad to see you;For me I would be mair than proud To share the mercies wi'you.
If Death,then,wi'skaith,then,Some mortal heart is hechtin,Inform him,and storm him,That Saturday you'll fecht him.
Robert Burns.
Mossgiel,An.M.5790.
The Farewell To the Brethren of St.James'Lodge,Tarbolton.
tune-"Guidnight,and joy be wi'you a'."
Adieu!a heart-warm fond adieu;
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favoured,enlighten'd few,Companions of my social joy;Tho'I to foreign lands must hie,Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba';With melting heart,and brimful eye,I'll mind you still,tho'far awa.
Oft have I met your social band,And spent the cheerful,festive night;Oft,honour'd with supreme command,Presided o'er the sons of light:
And by that hieroglyphic bright,Which none but Craftsmen ever saw Strong Mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes,when far awa.
May Freedom,Harmony,and Love,Unite you in the grand Design,Beneath th'Omniscient Eye above,The glorious Architect Divine,That you may keep th'unerring line,Still rising by the plummet's law,Till Order bright completely shine,Shall be my pray'r when far awa.
And you,farewell!whose merits claim Justly that highest badge to wear:
Heav'n bless your honour'd noble name,To Masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,-
When yearly ye assemble a',One round,I ask it with a tear,To him,the Bard that's far awa.
On A Scotch Bard,Gone To The West Indies A'ye wha live by sowps o'drink,A'ye wha live by crambo-clink,A'ye wha live and never think,Come,mourn wi'me!
Our billie 's gien us a'a jink,An'owre the sea!
Lament him a'ye rantin core,Wha dearly like a random splore;Nae mair he'll join the merry roar;
In social key;
For now he's taen anither shore.
An'owre the sea!
The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,And in their dear petitions place him:
The widows,wives,an'a'may bless him Wi'tearfu'e'e;For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea!
O Fortune,they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,Wha can do nought but fyke an'fumble,'Twad been nae plea;But he was gleg as ony wumble,That's owre the sea!
Auld,cantie Kyle may weepers wear,An'stain them wi'the saut,saut tear;'Twill mak her poor auld heart,I fear,In flinders flee:
He was her Laureat mony a year,That's owre the sea!
He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast;A jillet brak his heart at last,Ill may she be!
So,took a berth afore the mast,An'owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune's cummock,On a scarce a bellyfu'o'drummock,Wi'his proud,independent stomach,Could ill agree;So,row't his hurdies in a hammock,An'owre the sea.
He ne'er was gien to great misguidin,Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;Wi'him it ne'er was under hiding;
He dealt it free:
The Muse was a'that he took pride in,That's owre the sea.
Jamaica bodies,use him weel,An'hap him in cozie biel:
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,An'fou o'glee:
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,That's owre the sea.
Farewell,my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,Now bonilie!
I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie,Tho'owre the sea!
song-Farewell To Eliza tune-"Gilderoy."From thee,Eliza,I must go,And from my native shore;The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans,roaring wide,Between my love and me,They never,never can divide My heart and soul from thee.
Farewell,farewell,Eliza dear,The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,We part to meet no more!
But the latest throb that leaves my heart,While Death stands victor by,-That throb,Eliza,is thy part,And thine that latest sigh!
A Bard's Epitaph Is there a whim-inspired fool,Owre fast for thought,owre hot for rule,Owre blate to seek,owre proud to snool,Let him draw near;And owre this grassy heap sing dool,And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,Who,noteless,steals the crowds among,That weekly this area throng,O,pass not by!
But,with a frater-feeling strong,Here,heave a sigh.
Is there a man,whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer,Yet runs,himself,life's mad career,Wild as the wave,Here pause-and,thro'the starting tear,Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn the wise to know,And keenly felt the friendly glow,And softer flame;But thoughtless follies laid him low,And stain'd his name!
Reader,attend!whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,In low pursuit:
Know,prudent,cautious,self-control Is wisdom's root.
Epitaph For Robert Aiken,Esq.
Know thou,O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd,much honoured name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.
Epitaph For Gavin Hamilton,Esq.
The poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps,Whom canting wretches blam'd;But with such as he,where'er he be,May I be sav'd or damn'd!
Epitaph On "Wee Johnie"
Hic Jacet wee Johnie.
Whoe'er thou art,O reader,know That Death has murder'd Johnie;An'here his body lies fu'low;
For saul he ne'er had ony.
The Lass O'Ballochmyle tune-"Ettrick Banks."'Twas even-the dewy fields were green,On every blade the pearls hang;The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,All nature list'ning seem'd the while,Except where greenwood echoes rang,Amang the braes o'Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward stray'd,My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,When,musing in a lonely glade,A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy:
Her look was like the morning's eye,Her air like nature's vernal smile:
Perfection whisper'd,passing by,"Behold the lass o'Ballochmyle!"Fair is the morn in flowery May,And sweet is night in autumn mild;When roving thro'the garden gay,Or wand'ring in the lonely wild:
But woman,nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonie lass o'Ballochmyle.
O,had she been a country maid,And I the happy country swain,Tho'shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain!
Thro'weary winter's wind and rain,With joy,with rapture,I would toil;And nightly to my bosom strain The bonie lass o'Ballochmyle.
Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,Where frame and honours lofty shine;And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,Or downward seek the Indian mine:
Give me the cot below the pine,To tend the flocks or till the soil;And ev'ry day have joys divine With the bonie lass o'Ballochmyle.
Lines To An Old Sweetheart Once fondly lov'd,and still remember'd dear,Sweet early object of my youthful vows,Accept this mark of friendship,warm,sincere,Friendship!'tis all cold duty now allows.
And when you read the simple artless rhymes,One friendly sigh for him-he asks no more,Who,distant,burns in flaming torrid climes,Or haply lies beneath th'Atlantic roar.
Motto Prefixed To The Author's First Publication The simple Bard,unbroke by rules of art,He pours the wild effusions of the heart;And if inspir'd 'tis Nature's pow'rs inspire;Her's all the melting thrill,and her's the kindling fire.
Lines To Mr.John Kennedy Farewell,dear friend!may guid luck hit you,And 'mang her favourites admit you:
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you,May nane believe him,And ony deil that thinks to get you,Good Lord,deceive him!
Lines Written On A Banknote Wae worth thy power,thou cursed leaf!
Fell source o'a'my woe and grief!
For lack o'thee I've lost my lass!
For lack o'thee I scrimp my glass!
I see the children of affliction Unaided,through thy curst restriction:
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile Amid his hapless victim's spoil;And for thy potence vainly wished,To crush the villain in the dust:
For lack o'thee,I leave this much-lov'd shore,Never,perhaps,to greet old Scotland more.
R.B.
Stanzas On Naething Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton,Esq.
To you,sir,this summons I've sent,Pray,whip till the pownie is freathing;But if you demand what I want,I honestly answer you-naething.
Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me,For idly just living and breathing,While people of every degree Are busy employed about-naething.
Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,And grumble his hurdies their claithing,He'll find,when the balance is cast,He's gane to the devil for-naething.
The courtier cringes and bows,Ambition has likewise its plaything;A coronet beams on his brows;
And what is a coronet-naething.
Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,Some quarrel Episcopal graithing;But every good fellow will own Their quarrel is a'about-naething.
The lover may sparkle and glow,Approaching his bonie bit gay thing:
But marriage will soon let him know He's gotten-a buskit up naething.
The Poet may jingle and rhyme,In hopes of a laureate wreathing,And when he has wasted his time,He's kindly rewarded wi'-naething.
The thundering bully may rage,And swagger and swear like a heathen;But collar him fast,I'll engage,You'll find that his courage is-naething.
Last night wi'a feminine whig-
A Poet she couldna put faith in;
But soon we grew lovingly big,I taught her,her terrors were naething.
Her whigship was wonderful pleased,But charmingly tickled wi'ae thing,Her fingers I lovingly squeezed,And kissed her,and promised her-naething.
The priest anathemas may threat-
Predicament,sir,that we're baith in;
But when honour's reveille is beat,The holy artillery's naething.
And now I must mount on the wave-
My voyage perhaps there is death in;
But what is a watery grave?
The drowning a Poet is naething.
And now,as grim death's in my thought,To you,sir,I make this bequeathing;My service as long as ye've ought,And my friendship,by God,when ye've naething.
The Farewell The valiant,in himself,what can he suffer?
Or what does he regard his single woes?
But when,alas!he multiplies himself,To dearer serves,to the lov'd tender fair,To those whose bliss,whose beings hang upon him,To helpless children,-then,Oh then,he feels The point of misery festering in his heart,And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward:
Such,such am I!-undone!
Thomson's Edward and Eleanora.
Farewell,old Scotia's bleak domains,Far dearer than the torrid plains,Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell,a mother's blessing dear!
A borther's sigh!a sister's tear!
My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell,my Bess!tho'thou'rt bereft Of my paternal care.
A faithful brother I have left,My part in him thou'lt share!
Adieu,too,to you too,My Smith,my bosom frien';When kindly you mind me,O then befriend my Jean!
What bursting anguish tears my heart;
From thee,my Jeany,must I part!
Thou,weeping,answ'rest-"No!"
Alas!misfortune stares my face,And points to ruin and disgrace,I for thy sake must go!
Thee,Hamilton,and Aiken dear,A grateful,warm adieu:
I,with a much-indebted tear,Shall still remember you!
All hail then,the gale then,Wafts me from thee,dear shore!
It rustles,and whistles I'll never see thee more!
The Calf To the Rev.James Steven,on his text,Malachi,ch.iv.vers.2."And ye shall go forth,and grow up,as Calves of the stall."Right,sir!your text I'll prove it true,Tho'heretics may laugh;For instance,there's yourself just now,God knows,an unco calf.
And should some patron be so kind,As bless you wi'a kirk,I doubt na,sir but then we'll find,Ye're still as great a stirk.
But,if the lover's raptur'd hour,Shall ever be your lot,Forbid it,ev'ry heavenly Power,You e'er should be a stot!
Tho'when some kind connubial dear Your but-and-ben adorns,The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns.
And,in your lug,most reverend James,To hear you roar and rowt,Few men o'sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowt.
And when ye're number'd wi'the dead,Below a grassy hillock,With justice they may mark your head-"Here lies a famous bullock!"
Nature's Law-A Poem Humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton,Esq.
Great Nature spoke:observant man obey'd-Pope.
Let other heroes boast their scars,The marks of sturt and strife:
And other poets sing of wars,The plagues of human life:
Shame fa'the fun,wi'sword and gun To slap mankind like lumber!
I sing his name,and nobler fame,Wha multiplies our number.
Great Nature spoke,with air benign,"Go on,ye human race;This lower world I you resign;
Be fruitful and increase.
The liquid fire of strong desire I've pour'd it in each bosom;Here,on this had,does Mankind stand,And there is Beauty's blossom."The Hero of these artless strains,A lowly bard was he,Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains,With meikle mirth an'glee;Kind Nature's care had given his share Large,of the flaming current;And,all devout,he never sought To stem the sacred torrent.
He felt the powerful,high behest Thrill,vital,thro'and thro';And sought a correspondent breast,To give obedience due:
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs,From mildews of abortion;And low!the bard -a great reward -
Has got a double portion!
Auld cantie Coil may count the day,As annual it returns,The third of Libra's equal sway,That gave another Burns,With future rhymes,an'other times,To emulate his sire:
To sing auld Coil in nobler style With more poetic fire.
Ye Powers of peace,and peaceful song,Look down with gracious eyes;And bless auld Coila,large and long,With multiplying joys;Lang may she stand to prop the land,The flow'r of ancient nations;And Burnses spring,her fame to sing,To endless generations!
song-Willie Chalmers Mr.Chalmers,a gentleman in Ayrshire,a particular friend of mine,asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady,his Dulcinea.I had seen her,but was scarcely acquainted with her,and wrote as follows:-Wi'braw new branks in mickle pride,And eke a braw new brechan,My Pegasus I'm got astride,And up Parnassus pechin;Whiles owre a bush wi'donwward crush,The doited beastie stammers;Then up he gets,and off he sets,For sake o'Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na,lass,that weel ken'd name May cost a pair o'blushes;I am nae stranger to your fame,Nor his warm urged wishes.
Your bonie face sae mild and sweet,His honest heart enamours,And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,Tho'wair'd on Willie Chalmers.
Auld Truth hersel'might swear yer'e fair,And Honour safely back her;And Modesty assume your air,And ne'er a ane mistak her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy palmers;Nae wonder then they've fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,Fu'lifted up wi'Hebrew lore,And band upon his breastie:
But oh!what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars;The feeling heart's the royal blue,And that's wi'Willie Chalmers.
Some gapin',glowrin'countra laird May warsle for your favour;May claw his lug,and straik his beard,And hoast up some palaver:
My bonie maid,before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers,Seek Heaven for help,and barefit skelp Awa wi'Willie Chalmers.
Forgive the Bard!my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom,Inspires my Muse to gie 'm his dues For deil a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,And fructify your amours,-And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers.
Reply To A Trimming Epistle Received From A Tailor What ails ye now,ye lousie bitch To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh,man!hae mercy wi'your natch,Your bodkin's bauld;I didna suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld.
What tho'at times,when I grow crouse,I gie their wames a random pouse,Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam,ye prick-the-louse,An'jag-the-flea!
King David,o'poetic brief,Wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief As filled his after-life wi'grief,An'bluidy rants,An'yet he's rank'd amang the chief O'lang-syne saunts.
And maybe,Tam,for a'my cants,My wicked rhymes,an'drucken rants,I'll gie auld cloven's Clootie's haunts An unco slip yet,An'snugly sit amang the saunts,At Davie's hip yet!
But,fegs!the session says I maun Gae fa'upo'anither plan Than garrin lasses coup the cran,Clean heels ower body,An'sairly thole their mother's ban Afore the howdy.
This leads me on to tell for sport,How I did wi'the Session sort;Auld Clinkum,at the inner port,Cried three times,"Robin!
Come hither lad,and answer for't,Ye're blam'd for jobbin!"Wi'pinch I put a Sunday's face on,An'snoov'd awa before the Session:
I made an open,fair confession-
I scorn't to lee,An'syne Mess John,beyond expression,Fell foul o'me.
A fornicator-loun he call'd me,An'said my faut frae bliss expell'd me;I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,"But,what the matter?
(Quo'I)I fear unless ye geld me,I'll ne'er be better!""Geld you!(quo'he)an'what for no?
If that your right hand,leg or toe Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,You should remember To cut it aff-an'what for no Your dearest member?""Na,na,(quo'I,)I'm no for that,Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't;I'd rather suffer for my faut A hearty flewit,As sair owre hip as ye can draw't,Tho'I should rue it.
"Or,gin ye like to end the bother,To please us a'-I've just ae ither-When next wi'yon lass I forgather,Whate'er betide it,I'll frankly gie her 't a'thegither,An'let her guide it."But,sir,this pleas'd them warst of a',An'therefore,Tam,when that I saw,I said "Gude night,"an'cam'awa',An'left the Session;I saw they were resolved a'
On my oppression.
The Brigs Of Ayr A Poem Inscribed to John Ballantine,Esq.,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 thorn bush;The soaring lark,the perching red-breast shrill,Or deep-ton'd plovers grey,wild-whistling o'er the hill;Shall he-nurst in the peasant's lowly 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 venal 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 spirit 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 Ballantine befriends his humble name,And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,The godlike bliss,to give,alone excels.
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap,And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith O'coming Winter's biting,frosty breath;The bees,rejoicing o'er their summer toils,Unnumber'd buds an'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'devils,smoor'd wi'brimstone reek:
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side,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 savage,ruthless deeds!)Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs,Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,Proud o'the height o'some bit half-lang tree:
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,Mild,calm,serene,wide spreads the noontide blaze,While thick the gosamour 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 of Ayr,By whim inspir'd,or haply prest wi'care,He left his bed,and took his wayward route,And down by Simpson's^1wheel'd 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^2had number'd two,and Wallace Tower^2had sworn the fact was true:
The tide-swoln firth,with sullen-sounding roar,Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore.
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e;The silent moon shone high o'er tower 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 sugh of whistling wings is heard;Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air;Swift as the gos^3drives on the wheeling hare;Ane on th'Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,The other flutters o'er the rising piers:
Our warlock Rhymer instantly dexcried The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;Fays,Spunkies,Kelpies,a',they can explain them,And even the very deils they brawly ken them).
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,The very wrinkles Gothic in his face;He seem'd as he wi'Time had warstl'd lang,Yet,teughly doure,he bade an unco bang.
[Footnote 1:A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.-R.B.]
[Footnote 2:The two steeples.-R.B.]
[Footnote 3:The Gos-hawk,or Falcon.-R.B.]
