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EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

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HERE Holy Willie's sair-worp clay

Takes up its last abode;
His saul has ta'en some other way,

I fear, the left-hand road.
Stop! there he is as sure's a gun,

Poor silly body, see him ;
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,

Observe wha's standin' wi' him.
Your brunstane devilship I see

Has got him there before ye; But ha'd your nine-tail cat a wee,

Tillance you've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,

For pity ye'bae nane;
Justice, alas ! has gi'en bim o'er,

And mercy's day is gaen.
But hear me, Sir, de’il as ye are,

Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wou'd stain your name,

If it were kent ye did it.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL.

No

more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, Nor pour your accents grating on my ear; 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 strajo 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,

Ah! why should I such scenes outlive, Scenes so abhorrent to my heart !

'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

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,
In heav'n itself I'll ask no more,

Than just a Highland welcome.

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FAIR the face of orient day,

Fair the tints of op’ning rose ;
But fairest still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.

M

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,

Sweet the tinkling rill to hear!
But, Delia, more delightful still,

Steal thine accents on mine ear,

The flower-enamour'd busy bee

The rosy banquet loves to sip !
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse

To the sun-browu'd Arab's lip :
But, Delia, on my balmy lips

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove !
O let me steal one liquid kiss !

For oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

THE HEN-PECK'D HUSBAND. Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, Who has no will, but by her high permission ; Who has not sixpence, but in her possession. Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b-ho

SONGS.

THE LEA-RIG. WHEN o'er the hills the eastern star

Tells bugbtin-time is near, my jo: And owsen frae the furrow'd field

Returns sae dowf and weary 0; Down by the burr, where scented birke

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, l'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,

I'd rove, and pe'er be eerie 0, 'If thro' that glep I gaed to thee,

My aine kind dearie 0. Although the night were ne'er sae dark,

And I were ne'er sae wearie 0,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie 0.
The hunter lo’es the morning sun,

To rouse the mountain deer, myjo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,

Alang the burn to steer, myjo; Gie me the hour o'gloaming grey,

It makes my heart sac cheery 0, To meet thee on thee lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie 0.

DUNCAN GREY. DUNCAN Gray came here to woo

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On new-year's day when we were fou,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Maggie coost her head fu' heigh,

Look'd asklent and unko skeigb, Gárt poor Duncan stand abeigh,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Duncan sigh'd haith out and in,

Grat his een baith bleer'd and blin', Spak o' loupin o'er a lin,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Shall I like a fool, quo' he,

For a baughty hussy die ?
She may gae to France for me,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
How it comes, let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg grew sick, as he grew well,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Something in her bosom wrings,

For relief a sigh she brings,
And oh! her een they spak sic things,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 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.

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