’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 out 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 closèd e’e; The silent moon shone high o’er tow’r and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream— When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard, The clanging sough 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 is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk: Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, And ev’n the very deils they brawly ken them.) Auld Brig appeared o’ ancient Pictish race, The very 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 and 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 ee, 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 doubtna, 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 whigmaleeries in your noodle.’ NEW BRIG