EPITAPHS. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. HERE Souter Will in death does sleep; To h-ll, if he's gane thither, ON A NOISY POLEMIC. BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie's banes; Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch ON WEE JOHNNY. Hic jacet wee Johnnie. WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know, That death has murder'd Johnnie! For saul he ne'er had ony. L FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. FOR R. A. ESQ. KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame FOR G. H. ESQ. THE poor man weeps-here G- But with such as he, where'er he be, -n sleeps, A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, O, pass not by ! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear Here pause-and, through the starting tear, The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low, Reader, attend-whether thy soul Know, prudent, cautious, self-control Is wisdom's root. HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it: A chield's amang you taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light H K" That's he, mark weeld £. And wow! he has an unco sleight By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, T Or kirk deserted by its riggin, It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldrich part, Wi' deils, they say, L-d save's! colleaguin Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor, And you, deep read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight b- -es. T It's tauld he was a sodger bred, He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets; Rusty airn caps, and jinglin jackets, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont guid; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Before the Flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Forbye, he'll shape you aff fu' gleg, The knife that nicket Abel's craig, He'll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gullie. But wad ye see him in his glee, Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him: And port, O port! shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him! |