“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 wi’ resurrection!”

     [Footnote 5:  The source of the River Ayr.—­R.  B.]

     [Footnote 6:  A small landing place above the large quay.—­R.  B.]

     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 aye; Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, 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