LINES

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELEBRATED MISS BURNS.

CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing,

Lovely Burns has charms-confess :
True it is, she had one failing,

Had a woman ever less?

ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR.

OH! had each Scot of ancient times
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art,
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward.

EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE,

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY.

THE Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying,

So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;

But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning,
Astonish'd confounded! cry'd Satan,

By God,

I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load.'

EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF MARTIAL'S

EPIGRAMS.

O THOU whom Poetry abhors,

Whom Prose had turned out of doors,

Heard'st thou that groan?-proceed no further,

'Twas laurel'd Martial roaring murther.

EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD,

NOT QUITE SO WISE AS SOLOMON.

BLESS Jesus Christ, O Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes,
Who said that not the soul alone,
But body too, must rise:

For had he said, 'The soul alone
From death I will deliver,'

Alas, alas! O Cardoness,

Then thou hadst slept for ever!

EPITAPH 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!

EPITAPH ON WEE JOHNNY.

Hic jacet wee Johnny.

WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know
That death has murder'd Johnie !

An' here his body lies fu' low

For saul he ne'er had ony.

EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

HERE Sowter Hood in Death does sleep;

To Hell, if he's gane thither,

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,

He'll haud it weel thegither.

EPITAPH 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.

EPITAPH 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 damn'd!

A BARD'S

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

EPITAPH.

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.

EPITAPH ON A PERSON NICKNAMED 'THE MARQUIS,'

WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM.

HERE lies a mock Marquis whose titles were shamm'd,
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd.

EPIGRAM.

WHEN -, deceased, to the devil went down,
'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown;
'Thy fool's head,' quoth Satan, 'that crown shall wear never,
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.'

LINES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER.

My blessings on ye, honest wife,

I ne'er was here before:

Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and

knife

Heart could not wish for more.

ΤΟ

Heaven keep you clear of sturt and
strife,

Till far ayont four score,
And by the Lord o' death and life,
I'll ne'er gae by your door!