And from the citadel of Ayr Prigs of the law in pomp repair : What sable cools the pilgrims have Who leave behind Saint Marnock's grave! From old Kilwinning's sacred fane, Slow marches forth a mystic train, As venerably as when they Process on Dedication day. Well may you note each order'd class By cabalistic figur'd dress; On velvet zone, and apron fine, Bright glitters crescent, cross, and trine; Which grand Sir Knights of each degree Shew them undoubtedly to be, Who for our bless'd Redeemer's sake Did solemn vows upon them take, To walk like pilgrims, or with brand, By force to take the Holy Land, From front to rear, the mystic row. Brown Carrick-hill they now ascend, Now by Saint Ringan's Well they wend And, as the sun sinks in the main, They pass the draw-bridge of Culzean. Up flee the castle gates, and all Are usher'd first into the hall; Beneath cartouches, round they see Red crusted with the blood of those For Morven's mighty Monarch made And spear of Swaran, broke in war; Still wet with Everallen's tears; Arranged on farther, full in sight, Sir David Lindsay's brand and shield, Wore by the witch of Lockerbie. When guards, and gates, and hall they've past, The grand state chamber opes at last; All wonder at the bed of state, Where lies Sir Archibald the great; Upon the quilt, in clusters set, Is many an ancient amulet, Design'd so well, that all appears To represent a shower of tears. 5 The canopy presents a dart Deep rankled in a bleeding heart; To show how fleet our moments pass, The bell is rung, and ev'ry class To separate apartments pass, On soul-cake, sauce, and large sirloin; From lyre and lip of bard, whose grief Is great for the departed chief; Ne'er raised the echo's of Culzean: Compared it might be with the lay Or with the heaven-taught songs, I ween, Perform'd before the Scottish Queen. But as upon the wings of Time Draws to the castle portico; Behind it first comes into sight |