LINES WRITTEN ON WINDOWS OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES. THE graybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treas ures, Give me with gay Folly to live; I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, But Folly has raptures to give. I MURDER hate by field or flood, The deities that I adore, Are social Peace and Plenty: I'm better pleas'd to make one more Than be the death of twenty. My bottle is my holy pool, That heals the wounds o' care and door And pleasure is a wanton trout, An' ye drink it, ye'll find him out. IN politics if thou would'st mix, Bear this in mind- be deaf and blind LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KING'S-ARMS TAVERN, DUMFRIES. YE men of wit and wealth, wi' a' this sneering A VERSE, PRESENTED BY THE AUTHOR, TO' THE MASTER OF A HOUSE, AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. WHEN Death's dark stream I ferry o'er- EPIGRAM. [Burns, accompanied by a friend, having gone to Inverary at a time when some company were there on a visit to the Duke of Argyll, finding himself and his companion entirely neglected by the innkeeper, whose whole attention seemed to be occupied with the visiters of his Grace, expressed his disapprobation of the incivility with which they were treated, in the following lines.] WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he comes to wait upon The Lord their God his Grace. EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF MARTIAL'S EPI GRAMS. O THOU whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard'st thou that groan? —proceed no further, 'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring, Murder! VERSES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON WE cam na here to view your warks, In hopes to be mair wise, But only lest we gang to hell, It may be nae surprise: But when we tirled at your door, EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. HERE souter **** in death does sleep; Satan, gie him thy gear to keep! He'll haud it weel thegither. 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 FOR G. H., ESQ. THE poor man weeps here G―n sleeps, - Whom canting wretches blam'd: But with such as he, where'er he be, May I be sav'd or damn'd! |