New Brig

‘Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t, The Lord 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 sculptures 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!’