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 aye; Ye dainty Deacons, an’ 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 damn’d New Brigs and harbours!’