ON THE DEATH OF A LAPDOG

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,
Seeam your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.

ЕРІТАРН

ON SIR DAVID MAXWELL OF CARDONESS.

BLESS the Redeemer, 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.

ON A SUICIDE.

EARTH'D up here lies an imp o' hell,
Planted by Satan's dibble-
Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel❜
To save the Lord the trouble.

INSCRIPTION

TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON,

POET, BORN SEPTEMBER 5th, 1751.-DIED
15th OCTOBER, 1774.

No sculptured 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.

EPITAPH ON MR BURTON.*

HERE cursing swearing Burton lies,
A buck, a beau, or Dem my eyes!
Who in his life did little good,
And his last words were Dem my

blood!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

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;

* On one occasion Burns met at the festive board a dashing young Englishman of the name of Burton, who became very importunate that the poet should compose an epitaph for him. în vain the bard objected that he was not sufficiently acquainted with Burton's character and habits to qualify him for the task: the request was constantly repeated with a " Dem my eyes, Burns, do write an Epitaph for me; Oh, Dem my blood, do, Burns, write an Epitaph for me. Overcome by his importunity, Burns at last took out his pencil and produced the above. It operated like a shower-bath upon poor Burton, but electrified the rest of the company.-M.

2

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

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.

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.

SONGS.

THE RIGS O' BARLEY.*

Tune-" Corn rigs are bonnie."

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie:

The time flew by wi' tentless heed,
'Till 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed,
To see me thro' the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I sat her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:

I kent her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace!
Her heart was beating rarely :

* Who the heroine of this capital, though rather warm, lyric was, is not well authenticated, and none has claimed that distinction for very obvious reasons.-M.

My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!

But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinkin;
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;
I hae been happy thinkin :
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

Tho' three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, and barley rigs,
And corn rigs are bonnie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

PEGGY.*

Tune-"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

Now westlin winds and slaught❜ring guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:

This song, the poet informs us, was composed in August. The object of his admiration was 'Montgomery's Peggy,' on whom he spent to no purpose many of his amatory lyrics. There is more of description than of passion in these verses.-M.