"The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside" (Which ROBBIE BURNS in days lang syne descry'd) Attend me noo! Lo the Auld Brig uprears Its shaky timbers on its sheep-shank piers! Wull I win owre in safety? Losh! I feel Like _Tam o' Shanter_ after that witch-reel. Fays, spunkies, kelpies seem to throng the air; Swift as the gos drives on the wheeling hare They drive on me, like vera deils. Lang rains Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; The "flowing tide" beneath me brawls like Coil, But the wrang gait its billows brim an' boil. Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes. If down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise, But dash the gumlie jaups up to the skies. A lesson sadly teaching to your cost That the Brig(g)-builders' Liberal arts seem lost. Wad I were owre! Sin' Forfarshire went wrang, And our old cause gat sic an unco bang, My speerits sink and groan in deep vexation, To see sic melancholy alteration. Conceited gowks, puff'd up wi' windy pride, Still swell and swagger of the flowing tide. Flowing--but whither? All their fads and havers, Their whigmaleeries and their clishmaclavers Won't change those stubborn "chiels that winna ding." Scotland the good auld songs was wont to sing In a' but universal unison; But noo the janglin' seems to hae begun Even ayont the Tweed. What fa' from grace Hath late begat a base degenerate race? Nae longer phalanxed Rads, their party's glory! Your tartan'd Scot comes forth a true-blue Tory. Nae longer thrifty citizens, an' douce. Vote WULLIE'S lads to the great Council-House, Owre Liberty an' Law to stan' stout sentry, But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, The herryment and ruin o' the country, Win owre their votes, and Scotia aid affords To that sad gilded cell, the House o' Lords! Weel, weel! wi' Time we'll have to warstle lang, Be toughly doure, e'en although a' gae wrang; Stands Scotland where she did? That maun be tried. This mony a year thou'st stood the flood and tide, Auld Brig(g); and though wi' Forfar sair forfairn, My hap I here must tent and soon shall lairn. I ken the noo, no much aboot the matter, But twa-three footsteps will inform me better. _Shaky!_ My fears frae friend an' foe I'll cover, But, like puir TAM, I wad I were weel owre! * * * * *