Come wealth, come poort.i.th, late or soon, Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, And screw your temper pins aboon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazy croon O' cankrie care.

May still your life from day to day Nae "lente largo" in the play, But "allegretto forte" gay Harmonious flow: A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-- Encore! Bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gang Wha dearly like a jig or sang, An' never think o' right an' wrang By square an' rule, But as the clegs o' feeling stang Are wise or fool.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poort.i.th as disgrace-- Their tuneless hearts!

May fireside discords jar a base To a' their parts!

But come, your hand, my careless brither, I' th' ither warl', if there's anither, An' that there is I've little swither About the matter; We check for chow shall jog thegither, I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings--granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerly For our grand fa'; But stilt, but still, I like them dearly-- G.o.d bless them a'!

Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers, When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, The witching curs'd delicious blinkers Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi' girnan spite.

But by yon moon!--and that's high swearin'-- An' every star within my hearin'!

An' by her een wha was a dear ane!

I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin'

In fair play yet.

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, Ance to the Indies I were wonted, Some cantraip hour, By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, Then, _vive l'amour_!

_Faites mes baisemains respectueuse_, To sentimental sister Susie, An' honest Lucky; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, That sic a couple fate allows ye To grace your blood.

Nae mair at present can I measure, An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, Be't light, be't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park.

ROBERT BURNS.

_Mossgiel, 30th October_, 1786.

LXXI.

THE BRIGS OF AYR,

A POEM,

INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR.

[Burns took the hint of this Poem from the Planestanes and Causeway of Fergusson, but all that lends it life and feeling belongs to his own heart and his native Ayr: he wrote it for the second edition of his poems, and in compliment to the patrons of his genius in the west.

Ballantyne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous when the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon him: others of his friends figure in the scene: Montgomery's courage, the learning of Dugald Stewart, and condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded.]

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, gray, 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 Ballantyne befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The G.o.dlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won c.r.a.p; Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of 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 ma.s.sive 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 h.o.a.ry morns precede the sunny days, Mild, 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 of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward rout, And down by Simpson's[60] wheel'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 nor why) The drowsy Dungeon-clock,[61] had number'd two, And Wallace Tow'r[61] had sworn the fact was true: The tide-swol'n Firth, with sullen sounding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoa.r.s.e along the sh.o.r.e.

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e: 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 sugh of whistling wings is heard; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Swift as the gos[62] drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising piers: Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 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, s.p.u.n.kies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them, And ev'n the vera 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.

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 with anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;-- It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!

Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en:--

AULD BRIG.

I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank!

But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see; There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.

NEW BRIG.

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just 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' stane en' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time?

There's men o' taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream,[63]

Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.

AULD BRIG.

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!-- This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide; And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 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 ye better.

When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal[64] draws his feeble source, Arous'd by bl.u.s.t'ring winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; While crashing ice born on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate; And from Glenbuck,[65] down to the Ratton-key,[66]

Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea-- Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise!

And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies.

A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That Architecture's n.o.ble art is lost!

NEW BRIG.

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't!

The L--d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't!

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves; Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim; Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in 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 later times wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion; Fancies that our guid Brugh 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 Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners: Ye G.o.dly Councils wha hae blest this town; Ye G.o.dly Brethren o' the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; And (what would now be strange) ye G.o.dly writers; A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, Were 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, degen'rate race!

Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story!

Nae langer thrifty citizens an' douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country; Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d--d new Brigs and Harbours!