The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in every 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 guideen-

AULD BRIG.

I doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheepshank,

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 an' lime, Compare wi' bonie Brigs o' modern time? There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat-stream,* Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim,

A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.

Ere

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* draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate; And

The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit,

And from Glenbuck,* down to the Ratton-key,†
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 noble 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

* The source of the river Ayr.

† A small landing-place above the large key.

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 guid Brugh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur-
rection!

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, an' ye douce 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 gie your hurdies to the smiters
And (what would now be strange) ye godly
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

But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country;

Mèn, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d---d new Brigs and Harbours!

NEW BRIG.

Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle: But, under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd: To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle To mouth a Citizen,' a term o' scandal:

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins,
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins.
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp,
And would to Common-sense, for once betray'd
them,

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.

What