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 every arch;
     It chanc’d his new-come neibor took his e’e,
     And e’en a vexed 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 sheepshank,
     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 whigmaleeries 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 and lime,
     Compare wi’ bonie brigs o’ modern time? 
     There’s men of taste wou’d tak the Ducat stream,^4
     Tho’ they should cast the very 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 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,

     [Footnote 4:  A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.—­R.  B.]

     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,
     Aroused by blustering winds an’ spotting thowes,
     In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;
     While crashing ice, borne on the rolling spate,
     Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate;
     And from Glenbuck,^5 down to the Ratton-key,^6
     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