ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. LAMENT him, Mauchline husbands a', For had ye staid whole weeks awa', Your wives, they ne'er had miss'd ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass ON JOHN DOVE, INN-KEEPER, MAUCHLINE. HERE lies Johnny Pidgeon; To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane. Strong ale was ablution, Small beer persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full flowing bowl ON WALTER S SIC a reptile was Wat, That the worms even d—d him, "In his flesh there's a famine," A starv'd reptile cries; ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE As father Adam first was fool'd, EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION. O DEATH! hadst thou but spar'd his life, We freely wad exchang'd the wife, And a' been weel content. Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff, ANOTHER. ONE Queen Artemisa, as old stories tell, When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, She reduc'd him to dust, and she drank up the powder. But Queen N*******, of a diff'rent complexion, Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pre ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG NAMED ECHO. IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore; Now half extinct your pow'rs of song, Ye jarring, screeching things around, Now half your din of tuneless sound IMPROMPTU ON MRS. 'S BIRTH-DAY, 4TH NOVEMBER, 1793. OLD Winter, with his frosty beard, Now, Jove, for once, be mighty civil; That brilliant gift will so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me. "Tis done, says Jove;-so ends my story And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. MONODY, ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd! How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd! How dull is that ear which to flatt'ry so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, Thou diest unwept, as thou lived'st unlov'd. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; And flow'rs let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but ru'd the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire, |