The Brigs
Of Ayr
by Robert Burns
Sir, think not with a mercenary view
Some servile Sycophant
approaches you.
To you my Muse would sing these simple lays,
To you my
heart its grateful homage pays,
I feel the weight of all your kindness past,
But thank you not as wishing it to last;
Scorn'd be the wretch whose
earth-born grov'lling soul
Would in his ledger-hopes his Friends enroll.
Tho' I, a lowly, nameless, rustic Bard,
Who ne'er must hope your
goodness to reward,
Yet man to man, Sir, let us fairly meet,
And like
masonic Level, equal greet.
How poor the balance! ev'n what Monarch's plan,
Between two noble creatures such as Man.
That to your Friendship I am
strongly tied
I still shall own it, Sir, with grateful pride,
When haply
roaring seas between us tumble wide.
Or if among so many cent'ries
waste,
Thro' the long vista of dark ages past,
Some much-lov'd honor'd
name a radiance cast,
Perhaps some Patriot of distinguish'd worth,
I'll
match him if My Lord will please step forth.
Or Gentleman and Citizen
combine,
And I shall shew his peer in Ballantine:
Tho' honest men were
parcell'd out for sale,
He might be shown a sample for the hale
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 flowers' 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 flower 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, widespreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamour
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 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 forth,
he knew not where nor why):
The drowsy Dungeon-Clock had number'd two,
And Wallace Tower had 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 thro' the midnight air,
Swift as the gos
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
descried
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That bards are
second-sighted in nae joke,
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;
Fays, spunkies, 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 vera 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 an' 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-een: -
Auld Brig
'I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank,
Ance ye were
streekit owre frae bank to bank!
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me -
Tho' faith, that date, I doubt, ye'll never see -
There'll be, if that
day 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 of taste would tak the Ducat stream,
Tho' they would cast
the vera sark and swim,
E'er they would grate their feelings wi' the view
O' sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.'
Auld Brig
'Conceited gowk!
puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This monie a year I've stood the flood and 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 an' spotting thowes,
In monie a torrent down the
snaw-broo rowes;
While crushing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
Sweeps
dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;
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 Lord 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
sculptures 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' monie 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 o' 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, agonising, 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 damn'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.'
(Note: - 'haggling over hops and raisins' should translate
i
Scotland is the old spelling of seize and is still used legally in
of
such.)
What farther clish-ma-claver might been said,
What bloody
wars, if Sprites 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;
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat,
The infant ice scarce bent
beneath their feet;
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung,
And
soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.
O, had M'Lauchlan,
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 raptured 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 every 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-lilies 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
flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy,
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:
All-cheering 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 where 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-lov'd abode;
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath,
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken, iron instruments of
death:
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.
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