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The L-d 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, ftony groves : Windows and doors, in nameless sculptures

drest,

With order, symmetry, or taste unbleft ;
Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream,
The craz'd creations of misguided whim;

Forms

Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended

knee,

And still the second dread command be free,

Their likenefs is not found on earth, in air,

or sea.

Mansions that would disgrace the building

taste

Of any mason reptile, bird or beaft!

1

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

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protece

tion, And loon may they expire, unbleft with refur.

radion !

A ULD

A ULD BRIG.

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 Brethren of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gae your burdies to the smiters;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly

Writers :

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

tion, VOL. I.

Το

To fee each melancholy alteration;
And agonizing, 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 Gen

try,

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

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NEW BRIG.

Now haud you there! for faith ye've said

enough, And muckle mair than you can mak to through. As for your Priesthood, I shall fay þut little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle: But, under favour o your langer beard, Abuse of 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 Seifins.

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