ON A HENPECKED SQUIRE

Epitaph on a henpecked Country Squire.1

As father Adam first was fool'd,

(A case that's still too common,) Here lies a man a woman ruled, The devil ruled the woman.

Epigram on the Said Occasion.

O DEATH, had'st thou but spar'd his life,
Whom we this day lament,
We freely wad exchanged the wife,
And a' been weel content.
Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff,
The swap we yet will do't;
Tak thou the carlin's carcase aff,
Thou'se get the saul o' boot.b

Another.

ONE Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
When deprived of her husband she loved so well,
In respect for the love and affection he show'd her,
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder.
But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion,
When called on to order the fun'ral direction,
Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence,
Not to show her respect, but-to save the expence !

⚫ exchange.

1 Burns actually printed these jibes on a Mr Campbell of Netherplace in his Kilmarnock edition. The last

b soul as well.

might have appeared in the latest decadence of the Greek Anthology.

EPITAPH ON JOHN RANKINE

On Tam the Chapman.1

As Tam the chapman on a day,
Wi' Death forgather'd by the way,
Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight so famous,
And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas,
Wha cheerfully lays down his pack,
And there blaws up a hearty crack:
His social, friendly, honest heart
Sae tickled Death, they could na part;
Sae, after viewing knives and garters,
Death taks him hame to gie him quarters.

Epitaph on John Rankine.2
AE day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl'
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad-
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter:
Ashamed himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches,
"By G-d I'll not be seen behint them,

Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,

To grace this d-d infernal clan!"

By Adamhill a glance he threw,

"L-d G-d!" quoth he, "I have it now;
There's just the man I want, i' faith!"
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

⚫ begins.

b talk.

1 Mr Scott Douglas describes the provenance of this piece, given to William Cobbett by one Thomas

c wriggles.

Kennedy, a bagman, the subject of the verses.

2 Adamhill, where Rankine lived, is a farm near Lochlea.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

Lines on the Author's Death.1

WRITTEN WITH THE SUPPOSED VIEW OF BEING HANDED TO RANKINE AFTER THE POET'S INTERMENT.

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.

Man was made to Mourn-A Dirge.2

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"
Began the rev'rend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of man.

1 Only an indiscriminating piety can think these lines worth preserving.

2 Mr Scott Douglas dates this early lament of the Unemployed, so characteristic of Burns's tenderness and democratic sympathies, in November 1784. The tune, which inspires it, is described as "querulous.

The text is that of the Kilmarnock edition, 1786. The Common-place Book shows a number of variations, but the

only one of importance is the beginning
of verse 3 :-

"Yon sun that hangs o'er Carrick moors,
That spread so far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
The lordly Cassilis' pride."

On this there is a note in the MS.
by "W. R."-"The lordly Cassilis'
pride" is a line you must alter. I was
astonished to see anything so personal.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride ;-
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev'ry time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours—
Thy glorious, youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn ;

Then Age and Want-oh! ill-match'd pair

Shew man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest:

But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,

All wretched and forlorn,

Thro' weary life this lesson learn,

That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

And man, whose heav'n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,-
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,

The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;

But, oh! a blest relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!"