The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you.

      Auld brig.

      Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride!—

      This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide;

      And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn,

      I’ll be a Brig, when ye’re a shapeless cairn!

      As yet ye little ken about the matter,

      But twa-three winters will inform ye better.

      When heavy, dark, continued a’-day rains,

      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 Garpal[64] draws his feeble source,

      Arous’d by blust’ring winds an’ spotting thowes,

      In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes;

      While crashing ice born on the roaring speat,

      Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate;

      And from Glenbuck,[65] down to the Ratton-key,[66]

      Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d tumbling sea—

      Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise!

      And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies.

      A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,

      That Architecture’s noble art is lost!

      New brig.

      Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t!

      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, stony groves;

      Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest,

      With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;

      Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream,

      The craz’d creations of misguided whim;

      Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee,

      And still the second dread command 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;

      Fit only for a doited monkish race,

      Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace;

      Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion

      That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion;

      Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection!

      And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!

      Auld brig.

      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 ay;

      Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners,

      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, 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 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 d—d new Brigs and Harbours!

      New brig.

      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 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,

      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 clishmaclaver might been said,

      What bloody wars, if Spirites had blood to shed,

      No man can tell; but all before their sight,

      A fairy train appear’d in order bright:

      Adown the glitt’ring stream they featly danc’d;

      Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc’d:

      They footed owre 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.—

      O had M’Lauchlan,[67] thairm-inspiring Sage,

      Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,

      When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage;

      Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs,

      The lover’s raptur’d joys or bleeding cares;

      How would his highland lug been nobler fir’d,

      And ev’n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d!

      No guess could tell what instrument appear’d,

      But СКАЧАТЬ