LINES, CN BEING ASKED WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIS 50 LITTLE, AND MISS SO LARGE ; WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. Ask why God made the gem so small, And why so huge the granite! Because God meant mankind should set LINES WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON SEE ING HER IN THE CHARACTER OF YARICO KEMBLE, thou cur'st my unbelief At Yarico's sweet notes of grief, The rock with tears had flow'd' Dumfries Theatre, 1794. 29* 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 : 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 WHEN Death's dark stream I ferry o'er EPIGRAM. [Burns, accompanied by a friend, having gone to Inverary at a tine 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. 'There's naething here but Highland pride, If Providence has sent me here, EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF MARTIAL'S EPH 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, Your porter dought na hear us; EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. HERE souter **** in death does sleep He'll haud it weel thegither. |