LINES WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, YARICO. KEMBLE thou cur'st my unbelief Of Moses and his rod; At Yarico's sweet notes of grief, Dumfries Theatre, 1794. LINES WRITTEN ON WINDOWS OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES THE greybeard, old wisdom, may boast of his trea sures Give me with gay Folly to Live; I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures Butally has raptures to give. I murde hate by field or flood, 'Tho' glory's name may screen us; In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, The deities that I adore, Are social Peace and Plenty, My bottle is my holy pool, That heals the wounds o' care an' dool; An' ye drink it, y'll find him out. In politics if thou would'st mix, LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KING'S ARMS YE men of wit and wealth, wi' all this sneering Nay what are priests? those seeming godly wise men: What are they, pray? but spiritual Excisemen. A VERSE, PRESENTED BY THE AUTHOR, TO THE MASTER OF A HOUSE, AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. WHEN Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, EPIGRAM. [Burns accompanied by a friend, having gone to Inverary at a time when some company were there on a visit to the Duke of Argyll, finding himself and his companion entirely neglected by the Innkeeper, whose whole attention seemed to be occupied with the visitors of his Grace, expressed his disapprobation of the incivility with which they were treated in the following lines.] WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here, Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their God his Grace. If Providence has sent me here, 'Twas surely in an anger. EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. O THOU whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard'st thou that groan ?-proceed no further, 'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring murder. VERSES, WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. WE cam na here to view your warks In hopes to be mair wise, But only lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise: But when we tirl'd at your door, Your porter dought na hear us; Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER, HERE Soûter****in death does sleep; Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither. ON A NOISY POLEMIC. BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie's banes: Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch, ON WEE JOHNNY. Hic jacet wee Johnnie. WHOEVER thou art, O reader, know, FOR G. H. ESQ. THE poor man weeps-here G-n sleeps ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. LAMENT him Mauchline husbands a', For had ye staid whole weeks awa', |