A mixtie-maxtie1 motley squad,
And monie 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, glowering at the bitches:
"By God, I'll not be seen behint them,
Nor 'mang the spiritual corps present them,
Without at least ae honest man,

To grace this damn'd infernal clan."
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
"Lord God!" quoth he, "I have it now;
There's just the man I want, i' faith;"
And quickly stoppéd Rankine's breath.

LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS,

While on his death-bed, to John Rankine, and forwarded to him immediately after the Poet's death.

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

1 Confusedly mixed.-2 Swings

EPITAPHS.

EPITAPH FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious reverence and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father, and the generous friend.

The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

"For even his failings lean'd to virtue's side."

INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.

Born September 5th, 1750.-Died 16th 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.

FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much loved, much honor'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold.

1 Goldsmith.

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspiréd fool,

Owre' fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw. near;

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,

Oh 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 earthy hole,
In low pursuit;

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control,
Is wisdom's root.

ON A FRIEND.

An honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest;

1 Too.--2 Bashful.-3 To submit tamely, to sneak.-4 Over.-5 To lament,

to mourn.

The friend of man, the friend of truth; The friend of age, and guide of youth; Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, Few heads with knowledge so inform'd: If there's another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.

FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. THE poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps, Whom canting wretches blamed: But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be saved or d―d!

ON W. NICHOL.

YE maggots, feed on Nichol's brain,
For few sic feasts you've gotten;
And fix your claws in Nichol's heart,
For deil a bit o 't's rotten.

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.

LAMENT him, Mauchline husbands a',
He aften did assist ye:
For had ye staid whole weeks awa',
Your wives they ne'er had miss'd
ye.

Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass
To school in bands thegither,
O tread you lightly on his grass,
Perhaps he was your father!

ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE
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.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie's banes;
O Death! it's my opinion,
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin' bitch,
Into thy dark dominion!

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

HERE Souter Will in death does sleep;
To hell, if he's gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON JOHN DOVE, INN-KEEPER, MAUCHLINE.

HERE lies Johnie Pidgeon

What was his religion,

Whae'er desires to ken,

To some other warl'

Maun follow the carl,

For here Johnie Pidgeon had nane.

Strong ale was ablution,

Small beer persecution,

A dram was memento mori;

But a full-flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,

And port was celestial glory.