The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, Tak ye nae fear : 'Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want of breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. 'An honest Wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair. A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him weel. The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, Was laird himsel. A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, In Hornbook's care; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there. That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; An's weel paid for❜t; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his damn'd dirt: • But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, As dead's a herrin: Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairin!' But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Which rais'd us baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR. A Poem. INSCRIBED TO J. B*********, 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, [bush; Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn The soaring lark, the perching redbreast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the bill; Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field; With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? 'Twas when the stacks gat on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up fra 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 wi' 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; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 2 The two steeples. 3 The goshawk, or falcon. Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. AULD BRIG. I doubtna,frien',ye'll think ye're nae sheepshank, Ance ye were streekit owre 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 o' a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, |