Ye mauchlin bairns as on ye pass ON JOHN DOVE, INN-KEEPER, MAUCHLINE HERE lies Johnny Pidgeon, Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane. Strong ale was ablution, A dram was memento mori; And port was celestial glory. ON WALTER S SIC a reptile was Wat, Sic a miscreant slave, That the worms ev'n dd him, "In his flesh there's a famine," "An' his heart is rank poison," ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. As father Adam first was fool'd, EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION. death, hadst thou but spar'd his life, Ev'en as he is, cauld in his graff, ANOTHER. ONE Queen Artemisa, as old stories tell, When deprived of her husband she loved so well, der. But Queen N******* of a different complexion, When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence, Not to shew her respect, but-to save the expense. ON THE DEATH OF A LAP DOG IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Now half-extinct your powers of song, Ye jarring, screeching things around, IMPROMPTU ON MRS.-'S BIRTH-DAY. 4th November, 1793. OLD Winter with his frosty beard, Now, Jove, for once, be mighty civil, Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day! That brilliant gift will so enrich me, Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me.-- MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd! How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd! How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search thro' the Garden for each silly flower, We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from her ire. THE EPITАРН. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OF DWELLER in yon dungeon dark, STROPHE. VIEW the wither'd beldam's face- Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Pity's flood there never rose. See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, |