UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air.

The rising sun owre Galston muire,
Wi' glorious light was glintin';

The hares were hirplin' down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin'
Fu' sweet that day.
11.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,

Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin' up the way;

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,

But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining
Fu' gay that day.
III.

The tra appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form an' claes!

Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes:

The third cam up, hap-step-an-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day. IV.

Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me;

I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,

But yet I canna name ye."

Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak',
An' takes me by the hands,

Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of

Scotland for a Sacramental occasion.

Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't:
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,

An' meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin'!"
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time
An' soon I made me ready,
For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' monie a wearie body,

In droves that day.
VII.

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith,

Gaed hoddin by their cotters;

There swankies young, in braw braid-claith,

Are springin' o'er the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter;

Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,
An' farls bak'd wi' butter

Fu' crump that day.

Here some are thinkin' on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes;

Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
Anither sighs an' prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses

To chairs that da
XI.

O happy is that man an' blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin' down beside him!
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back,
He sweetly does compose him!

Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom,

Unken'd that day.

That's right that day.
XVI.

In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum ;
For ******, frae the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:

See, up he's got the word o' G-,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it, While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,

Wee***

Fast, fast, that day. XVII.

, niest, the Guard relieves,
An' Orthodoxy raibles,
Though in his heart he weel believes,
An' thinks it auld wives' fables:
But, faith! the birkie wants a Manse,
So, cannily he hums them;

Although his carnal wit an' sense
Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him
At times that day.
XVIII.

Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills,
Wi' yill-caup Commentators;
Here's crying out for bakes and gills,

An' there the pint stowp clatters;
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
Wi' Logic an' wi' Scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end,
Is like to breed a rupture
O' wrath that day.
XIX.

Leeze me on Drink! it gies us mair
Then either School or College:

It kindles wit, it waukens lair,
It pangs us fou o' knowledge.

Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,

It never fails on drinking deep,
To kittle up our notion

An' echoes back return the shouts
Black
is na spairin':
His piercing words, like Highland swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' H-11, where devils dwell,
Our vera sauls does harrow

Wi' fright that day
XXII.

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
Wha's ragin' flame, an scorchin' heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin',
When presently it does appear,
"Twas but some neebor snorin'

Asleep that day.

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow,
Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow
Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their shoon:
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,
They're a' in famous tune,

For crack that day.
XXVII.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane,
As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;
There's some are fou o' brandy
An' monie jobs that day begin,
May end in Houghmagandie
Some ither day.

By night or day. XX.

"Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend! hae ye been When ither folk are busy sawin' ?" [mawin', It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;
At length, says I, "Friend, whare ye gaun,
Will ye go back?"

It spak right howe,-" My name is Death,
But be na fley'd."-Quoth 1," Guid faith,
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie:
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!"

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gies your news; This while † ye hae been monie a gate At monie a house."

"Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, "It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread,

An' choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death.

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook's ‡ ta'en up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me.

This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.

This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician,

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan.
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan
An ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin',
And pouk my hips.

See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart,
They hae pierc'd monie a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art
And cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a f-t,

Damn'd haet they'll kill.

""Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,

It just play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

"Waes me for Johnie Ged's Holet now,"
Quo' I, "if that the news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white and bonnie,
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They'll ruin Johnie."

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And says, "Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak' ye nae fear:
They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh
In twa-three year.

"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death,
By loss o' blood or want o' breath,
This night I'm free to tak my aith,

That Hornbook's skill

Has clad a score i' their last claith,

bush;

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the
Shall he, nurs'd in the peasant's lowly shed, [hill;
To hardy Independence bravely bred,
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field,
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When B********* befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, Seal'd up with 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 deed!)

Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,
Proud of the height o' some bit half lang tree:
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays.
'Twas in that season, when a simple bård,
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,
Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e;
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree:
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream.-
When, lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart through 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 even the very deils they brawly ken them.)
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
The vera 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 e'e,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,
He, down the water, gi'es him this guideen :-

AULD BRIG.

I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank,
Ance ye were streckit o'er frae bank to bank!
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me,
Though faith that day, I doubt, ye'll never see;
There Il 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 footpath of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time? There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat-stream,§ Though they should cast the very sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view, Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you.