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He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re


Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ;

When B********* befriends his humble


And hands the ruftic ftranger up to fame, With heartfelt throbes his grateful bosom

swells, The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels!

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-bap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;
Potatoe bings are fnugged up frac kaith
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ;
VOL, I..


The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,

Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious


Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen

piles, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the


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, mother's, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds :)


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Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow fpring's';

Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, · Except perhaps the Robin's whittling glee,

Proud o’the heiglit o' fome bit half-lang tree: The hoary morns precede the funny days,

Mild, calm, ferene, wide-fpreads the noon

tide blaze,

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in

the rays.

'Twas in that season when a simple Bard,
Unknown and poor, fimplicity's reward,
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,
By whim infpir'd, or haply prest wi' care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward rout,
And down by Simpson's * wheel'd the left




* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.

(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


And Wallace' Tow!r! had sworn the fact was


The tide-swoln Firth, with fullen-sounding


Through the still night dash'd hoarse along

the Thore:

All else was hulh'd as Nature's closed e'e ;

The filent moon shone high o'er tow'r and



of The two steeples.

The chilly frost, beneath the filver-beam, Crept gently-crusting, 'o'er the glittering


When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard,

The clanging fugh o'whistling wings is heard ; Two dusky forms dart thro’the midnight air, Swift as the Gos * drives on the wheeling


Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears;
The ither futters o'er the rising piers ;
Our warlock Rhyner instantly descry!d.
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That Bards are second-fighted is nae joke,
And ken the lingo of the fp'ritual folk;

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* The gos-hawk, or falcon.

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