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A lesson fadly teaching to your cost,

That Architecture's noble art is loft!


Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't

The L-d be thankit that we've tint the gate


Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging, with threat’ning jut, like precipices; O'er-arching mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs fantastic, itony groves : Windows and doors, in nameless sculptures


With order, symmetry, or taste unbleft;

Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream,

The craz'dcreations of misguided whim;


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Their likeness is not found on earth, in air,

or fea.

Mansions that would disgrace the building


Of any mason reptile, bird or beaft!


Fit only for a doited Monkish race,
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace
Or Cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion

That fullen gloom was sterling true devotion ;
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protec-


And Toon may they expire, unbleft with refur.

re&tion !



O YE, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feel

ings !

Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay;
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners,
To whomour moderns are but causey-cleaners;
Ye godly Councils, wha hae bleft this town;
Ye godly Bretbren of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gae your burdies to the smiters;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly


A'ye douce folk I've born aboon the broo,
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do
How would your fpirits groan in deep vexa-


To To see each melancholy alteration;

And agonizing, eurse 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 Gen


The herryment and ruin of the country;
Men, three-parts made by Taylors and by

Wha waist your well-hain'd gear on d

new Brigs and Harbours !


Now haud you there! for faith ye've said

enough, And muckle mair than you can mak to through. As for your Priesthood, I fhall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a fhot 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 have a handle To mouth' A Citizen,' a term o' scandal: Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an'

raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins.

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