ON A SHEEP'S HEAD.

O LORD! when hunger pinches sore,
Do thou stand us in stead,

And send us from thy bounteous store
A tup or wether head!-Amen.

AFTER MEAT.

O LORD! since we have feasted thus,
Which we so little merit,

Let Meg now take away the flesh,
And Jock bring in the spirit!—Amen.

TO A LADY,

WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING SERMON.

FAIR maid, you need not take the hint,

Nor idle texts pursue:

'Twas guilty sinners that he meant-
Not angels such as you!

ON THE ILLNESS OF A FAVOURITE
CHILD.

Now health forsakes that angel face,

Nae mair my dearie smiles;
Pale sickness withers ilka grace,

And a' my hopes beguiles.

The cruel Powers reject the prayer

I hourly mak for thee!

Ye heavens, how great is my despair!
How can I see him die!

EPITAPH ON ROBERT FERGUSSON.
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.

VERSES

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRE

SENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 17, 1787.

CURSE on ungrateful man! that can be pleased,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune!
By far my elder brother in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL.
YE maggots, feast on Nicol's brain,
For few sic feasts ye've gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol's heart,
For deil a bit o't's rotten.

TO PEOPLE BOASTING OF THEIR GRAND
ACQUAINTANCES.

No more of your titled acquaintances boast,
And in what lordly circles you've been ;
An insect is still but an insect at most,
Though it crawl on the head of a quee

LINES WRITTEN ON A TUMBLER.

YOU'RE welcome, Willie Stewart;

You're welcome, Willie Stewart; There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy,—
The bowl we maun renew it;
The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,

To welcome Willie Stewart.

May foes be strang, and friends be slack,—

Ilk action may he rue it:

May woman on him turn her back,

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart!

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT
RUISSEAUX.*

Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He'll gabble rhyme nor sing nae mair;
Cauld Poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him ;

Nor anxious Fear, nor cankert Care,

E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him, Except the moment that they crusht him: For sune as Chance or Fate had husht 'em, Though e'er sae short, Then wi' à rhyme or song he lasht 'em,

And thought it sport.

* Fr. rivulets; i.e. Burns.

Though he was bred to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man;

But tell him he was learned and clark,
He roosed him than!

LINES TO JOHN RANKINE.*

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

* Written by Burns on his death-bed, and sent to Adamhill after his death.