EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay Takes up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some other way, Stop! there he is as sure's a gun, Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er, But hear me, Sir, de'il as ye are, ON THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL. No Thou young-ey'd spring, thy charms I cannot bear; More welcome were to me grim winter's wildest roar. How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your dies? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Rid. del lies. SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend? Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, A VERSE Composed and repeated by BURNS, to the Master of the House, on taking leave at a place in the Highlands where he had been hospitably entertained. WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come, DELIA, AN ODE. FAIR the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, The flower-enamour'd busy bee But, Delia, on my balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! For oh! my soul is parch'd with love. THE HEN-PECK'D HUSBAND. CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life, Who has no will, but by her high permission; SONGS. THE LEA-RIG. WHEN o'er the hills the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo: And owsen frae the furrow'd field Returns sae dowf and weary O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, Although the night were ne'er sae dark, My ain kind dearie O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, DUNCAN GREY. DUNCAN Gray came here to woo On new-year's day when we were fou, Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; sair to bide, Slighted love Ha, ha, the wooing o't. How it comes, let doctors tell, Duncan was a lad of grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meggy's was a ticklish case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't; Duncan could not be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. |