[Footnote 5: The source of the River Ayr.--R. B.]
[Footnote 6: A small landing place above the large quay.--R. B.]
“O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye; Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town; ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; And (what would now be strange), ye godly Writers; A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do? How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration; And, agonising, 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 Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country; Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damn'd new brigs and harbours!”
“Now haud you there! for faith ye've said enough, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through. As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot 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 hae 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 and raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins: If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.”
What farther clish-ma-claver aight been said, What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell; but, all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright; Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd: They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.
