INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF
FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, Poet.

Born September 5th, 1750.-Died 16th October, 1774.

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,

'No storied urn nor animated bust,' This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.

FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold.

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owree fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blated to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

And owref this grassy heap sing dool,g

And drap a tear.

Is there a Bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,

O pass not by!

But with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life's mad career,

Wild as the wave;

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

e Too.
ƒ Over.

d Bashful.

e To submit tamely, to sneak. g To lament, to mourn.

The poor inhabitant below,

Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame,

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name.

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole.
In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control,
Is wisdom's root.

ON A FRIEND.

AN honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth ;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. ·
THE poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps,
Whom canting wretches blam'd:
But with such as he, where'er he be,
May I be sav'd or d――d!

ON W. NICHOL.

YE maggots, feed on Nichol's brain,
For few sic feasts you 've gotten;
And fix your claws in Nichol's heart,
For deil a bit o't 's rotten.

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.
LAMENT him Mauchline husbands a',
He aften did assist ye;

For had ye staid whole weeks awa',
Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye.
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass
To school in bands thegither,
O tread you lightly on his grass,
Perhaps he was your father!

ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE.
As father Adam first was fool'd,

(A case that's still too common,) Here lies a man a woman rul'd, The Devil rul'd the woman.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie's banes;
O Death! it's my opinion,
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin' bitch,
Into thy dark dominion!

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.
HERE Souter Will in death does sleep;
To hell, if he's gane thither,

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,

He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON JOHN DOVE, INN-KEEPER, MAUCHLINE.

HERE lies Johnnie Pidgeon

What was his religion,

Whae'er desires to ken,

To some other warl'

Maun follow the carl,

For here Johnnie Pidgeon had nane.

Strong ale was ablution,

Small beer persecution,

A dram was memento mori;

But a full-flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory.

ON WEE JOHNNIE.

Hic jacet wee Johnnie.

WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know,
That death has murder'd Johnnie!
And here his body lies fu' low-
For saul he ne'er had onie!

ON JY B-Y, WRITER IN DUMFRIES. HERE lies Jy B -y, honest man! Cheat him, Devil, if you can.

ON A PERSON NICKNAMED THE MARQUIS, Who desired Burns to write one on him.

HERE lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were If ever he rise it will be to be d-d. [shamm'd, ON A SCHOOL MASTER IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE.

HERE lie Willie M-hie's banes,

O Satan, when ye tak him,

Gie him the schulin'h of your weans;1

For clever Deils he 'll mak 'em!

FOR MR. GABRIEL RICHARDSON,

Brewer, Dumfries: (but who, much to the satisfaction of his friends, has not yet needed one, 1819.)

HERE Brewer Gabriel's fire 's extinct,

And empty all his barrels :

He's blest-if, as he brew'd, he drink
In upright honest morals.

ON WALTER S

SIC a reptile was Wat,

Sic a miscreant slave,

That the worms e'en d-d him
When laid in his grave.

A Educating.

Children

In his flesh there's a famine,
A starv'd reptile cries;
And nis heart is rank poison,
Another replies.

ON A LAP-DOG NAMED ECHO,

IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;

Now half-extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.

SONGS AND BALLADS.

BANNOCK-BURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

"I am delighted,' says Burns to Mr. Thomson, with many little melodies which the learned musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whether the old air Hey tuttie tattie,' may rank among this number; but well I know that, with Frazer's hautboy, it has filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning.'

Tune.-Hey tuttie tattie.

Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, whamk Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie.

A Whom.