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And from the citadel of Ayr
Prigs of the law in pomp repair :
More ceremony ne'er was seen
At Holyrood or Falkland Green,
Than you proud magistracy show
As they before their burghers go.
Compared with them, how mild the mien
Of Bruce's freemen after seen!

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,
In graduation rightly go,

From front to rear, the mystic row.
First fellowcrafts go pair by pair,
Deacons and wardens follow there,
And last goes Rosline's Lord, Saint Clair.

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
These relics of antiquity,

Red crusted with the blood of those
Who on the King of Deserts rose.
Upon the wall is Luna's blade,

For Morven's mighty Monarch made
Beside it hangs Cuthullin's car,

And spear of Swaran, broke in war;
Below it Ossian's helm appears,

Still wet with Everallen's tears;

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Arranged on farther, full in sight,
The panoply of Hardicknyte;

Sir David Lindsay's brand and shield,
Lost by the Knight on Flowden Field;
And mystic bridle, eke they see,

Wore by the witch of Lockerbie.

When guards, and gates, and hall they've


The grand state chamber opes at last;
There greater pomp they now descry
Than erst they saw in Fancy's eye:
A range of golden chandeliers
Suspended from the roof appears;
The sofitos, with tapestry round,
Are richly cover'd to the ground;
By Mary, Scotland's Queen, 'tis said
In dark Lochleven Castle made.

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.


The canopy presents a dart

Deep rankled in a bleeding heart;

To show how fleet our moments pass,

With wings is seen a minute glass ;
To win the spirit of the Knight,
A fiend and angel fiercely fight;
And Death bestrides this earthly ball,
To show him conqueror of all.

The bell is rung, and ev'ry class

To separate apartments pass,
Where they invited are to dine

On soul-cake, sauce, and large sirloin;
And as the Sherry and Champaigne
Are handed round and round again,

The song

of Death, the theme of woe,

In mournful numbers 'rises slow

From lyre and lip of bard, whose grief

Is great for the departed chief;

In ages erst, so sweet a strain

Ne'er raised the echo's of Culzean :
Compared it might be with the lay
Of latest minstrel in our day;

Or with the heaven-taught songs, I ween, Perform'd before the Scottish Queen.

But as upon the wings of Time
Dies sound of harp and poet's chime,
With voice as solemn as the knell
Of nearest kinsman's passing bell,
The herald cries, "Proceed we must
To lay our chieftain in the dust!"
At once a hundred torches glare
Illuminates the murky air;

High-blooded steeds, in black array'd
With velvet o'er their chanfrins laid;
The cover'd hearse, with motion slow,

Draws to the castle portico;

Behind it first comes into sight

The empty carriage of the Knight;
An emblem that his spirit's flown
Away from earth to realms unknown.
The first and chiefest mourner there
Is young Culzean, his pious heir;
Lord Cassilis, drawn by hunters strong,
With young Knockmarloch, joins the throng;

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