The poem involves two narratives. First that of the poet who on meeting with Death surrenders the narrative to an even more thickly vernacular voice, which, with splendid irony, laments the loss of a six-thousand-year career of mayhem to Hornbook’s more lethal talents. With his ambivalence about folk-myth, Burns, jokingly, inserts footnotes which give the appearance of tying the poem into the mundane, everyday world. Hornbook’s name is taken from the hornbook used in Scottish schools whereby lettered pieces of parchment were savingly inserted between a wooden back and a transparent bone front. Hence, too, the joke (l. 120) of his rattling of the A B C. As well as Wilson’s illiterate incompetence derived from a fragile knowledge of Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, there is, amongst the wit, a wider sense of how exposed these communities were to illness and death, not least the child-aborting girl (ll. 163–8), by a mixture of, at best, useless folk-remedies and sheer general lack of adequate medical knowledge, professional or otherwise.
1 This recounter happened in seed-time 1785. R.B.
2 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. R.B.
3 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. R.B.
4 Buchan’s Domestic Medicine. R.B.
5 The grave-digger. R.B.
The Brigs o Ayr
Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr
First printed in the Edinburgh edition, 1787.
[Sir, Think not with a mercenary view
Some servile Sycophant approaches you.
To you my Muse would sing these simple lays
To you my heart its grateful homage pays,
5 I feel the weight of all your kindness past,
But thank you not as wishing it to last:
Scorn’d be the wretch whose earth-born grov’lling soul
Would in his ledger-hopes his Friends enroll.
Tho’ I, a lowly, nameless, rustic Bard,
10 Who ne’er must hope your goodness to reward,
Yet man to man, Sir, let us fairly meet,
And like Masonic Level, equal greet.
How poor the balance! Ev’n what Monarch’s plan,
Between two noble creatures such as Man.
15 That to your Friendship I am strongly tied
I still shall own it, Sir, with grateful pride,
When haply roaring seas between us tumble wide.
Or if among so many cent’ries waste,
Thro the long vista of dark ages past,
20 Some much-lov’d honor’d name a radiance cast,
Perhaps some Patriot of distinguish’d worth,
I’ll match him if My Lord will please step forth.
Or Gentleman and Citizen combine,
And I shall shew his peer in Ballantine:
25 Tho’ honest men were parcell’d out for sale,
He might be shown a sample for the hale.] whole
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
30 Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush,
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
Or deep-ton’d plovers grey, wild-whistling o’er the hill;
Shall he, nurst in the Peasant’s lowly shed,
To hardy Independence bravely bred,
35 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,
40 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.
45 Still, if some Patron’s gen’rous care he trace,
Skill’d in the secret to bestow with grace;
When Ballantine befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
50 The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.
’Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, wrapping
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; thatch & rope, crop
Potatoe-bings are snuggèd up frae skaith -heaps, from damage
O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath;
55 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: smothered, smoke
60 The thund’ring 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,
65 And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds!)
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs; no more
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, no more
Except perhaps the Robin’s whistling glee,
Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree; -long/half-sized tree
70 The hoary morns precede the sunny days;
Mild, calm, serene, widespreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.
’Twas in that season, when a simple Bard,
Unknown and poor, simplicity’s reward,
75 Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, one, borough
By whim inspir’d, or haply prest wi’ care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward rout, route
And down by Simpson’s1 wheel’d the left about:
(Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate,
80 To witness what I after shall narrate;
Or whether, rapt in meditation high,
He wander’d forth, he knew not where nor why.)
The drowsy Dungeon-Clock2 had number’d two,
And Wallace Tower2 had sworn the fact was true:
85 The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar, swollen
Through 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,
90 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; rustle
Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air,
Swift as the Gos3 drives on the wheeling hare;
95 Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, one, old
The ither flutters o’er the rising piers: other
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry’d wizard
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. over
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, no
100 And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk; know, language
Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a’, they can explain them, fairies, will-o-wisps, water spirits
And ev’n the vera deils they brawly ken them). very devils, well know
Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race, old
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face: very
105 He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang, wrestled long
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. stubborn, surprisingly robust
New Brig was buskit in a braw n
ew coat, dressed, fine
That he, at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got; from one
In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead, in his
110 Wi’ virls an’ whirlygigums at the head. rings, flourishes
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, neighbour, eye
And e’en a vex’d and angry heart had he! even
115 Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,
He, down the water, gies him this guid-een — gives, good evening
AULD BRIG
I doubt na, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheep-shank, person of little importance
Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank! once, stretched over from
But gin ye be a Brig as auld as me, once/if, old
120 Tho’ faith, that date, I doubt, ye’ll never see;
There’ll be, if that day come, I’ll wad a boddle, bet a half-farthing
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. whims, head
NEW BRIG
Auld Vandal! ye but show your little mense, old, decorum
Just much about it wi’ your scanty sense;
125 Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street,
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, two
Your ruin’d, formless bulk o’ stane an’ lime, stone
Compare wi’ bonie Brigs o’ modern time? handsome
There’s men of taste would tak the Ducat stream,4 take
130 Tho’ they should cast the vera sark and swim, very shirt
E’er they would grate their feelings wi’ the view
O’ sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. such
AULD BRIG
Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride! fool
This monie a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide; many
135 And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn, old age, sore, worn out
I’ll be a Brig when ye’re a shapeless cairn! pile of stones
As yet ye little ken about the matter, know
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. two-
When heavy, dark, continued, a’-day rains all-day
140 Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains;
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,
Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil,
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpal5 draws his feeble source,
145 Arous’d by blustering winds an’ spotting thowes, thaws
In monie a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; many, snow-brewrolls
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, spate/flood
Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate;
And from Glenbuck6 down to the Ratton-Key,7
150 Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea; old
Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! devil
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. muddy splashes
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,
That Architecture’s noble art is lost!’
NEW BRIG
155 Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t! in truth
The Lord be thankit that we’ve tint the gate o’t! lost, way/skill
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, ghost-
Hanging with threat’ning jut, like precipices;
O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,
160 Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves:
Windows and doors, in nameless sculptures drest,
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;
Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream,
The craz’d creations of misguided whim;
165 Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee,
And still the second dread Command8 be free:
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea!
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste
Of any mason reptile, bird or beast,
170 Fit only for a doited Monkish race, stupid/muddled
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace,
Or Cuifs of later times, wha held the notion, fools, who
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion:
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, good borough
175 And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!
AULD BRIG
O ye, my dear-remember’d, ancient yealings, contemporaries
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!
Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, Provosts, many
Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil ay; who
180 Ye dainty Deacons, an’ ye douce Conveeners,
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners; street-
Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town; who have
Ye godly brethren o’ the sacred gown
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; give, buttocks
185 And (what would now be strange), ye godly Writers;
A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo, prudent, above, water
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do!
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation
To see each melancholy alteration;
190 And, agonising, curse the time and place
When ye begat the base, degen’rate race!
Nae langer Rev’rend Men, their country’s glory, no longer
In plain, braid Scots hold forth a plain, braid story; broad
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an’ douce, no longer, prudent
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, half-witted/silly
The herryment and ruin of the country; destruction
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers,
Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on damn’d new Brigs and Harbours! who, well-saved wealth
NEW BRIG
200 Now haud you there! for faith ye’ve said enough, hold
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through. much more, make good
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle: ravens, difficult to shoot
But, under favour o’ your langer beard, longer/older age
205 Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d; well
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, old-world
I must needs say, comparisons are odd.
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle scandal-mongers, no more, have
To mouth ‘A Citizen,’ a term o’ scandal:
210 Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, no more
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;
Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an’ raisins, who, haggling over
Or gather’d lib’ral views in Bonds and Seisins;
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, walk
215 Had shor’d them with a glimmer of his lamp, threatened
And would to Common-sense for once betray’d them,
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.
What farther clishmaclaver might been said, nonsense
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed,
220 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,
225 The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet:
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung,
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.
O, had M’Lauchlan,9 thairm-inspiring Sage, catgut-/musical
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
230 When thro’ his dear Strathspeys they bore with Highland rage;
Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs,
The lover’s raptured joys or bleeding cares;
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir’d, ear
And ev’n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d!
235 No guess could tell what instrument appear’d,
But all the soul of Music’s self was heard;
Harmonious concert rung in every part,
While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart.
The Genius of the Stream in front appears,
240 A venerable Chief advanc’d in years;
His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d,
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;
245 Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy,
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn wreath’d with nodding corn;
Then Winter’s time-bleach’d locks did hoary show,
250 By Hospitality, with cloudless brow.
Next follow’d Courage, with his martial stride,
From where the Feal10 wild-woody coverts hide:
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,
A female form, came from the towers of Stair:
255 Learning and Worth in equal measures trode,
From simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode:
Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath,
To Rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken, iron instruments of Death,
260 At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.