Epigram On The Said Occasion [On A Henpecked Country Squire]
O Death, had'st thou butspar'd his life, Whom we this day lament, We freely wadexchanged the wife, And a'been weelcontent. Ev'n as he is, cauldin his graff, The swapwe yet will do't; Takthou the carlin's carcase aff, Thou'segetthe saulo'boot.
Epistle To John Rankine
O Rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The waleo' cocksfor fun an' drinkin! There's mony godly folks are thinkin, Your dreams and tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin Straughtto auldNick's. Ye hae sawmony cracks an' cants, And in your wicked, drucken rants, Ye maka devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws,
Epitaph On John Rankine
Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl, Was driving to the titherwarl' A mixtie-maxtiemotley squad, And mony 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,
Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton
Here SouterHood in death does sleep; To hell if he's ganethither, Satan, giehim thy gearto keep; He'll haudit weelthegither.
Lines On The Author’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.
Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge
When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care; His face furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. "Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" Began the rev'rend sage; "Does thirst
My Girl She’s Airy
My girl she's airy, she's buxom and gay; Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May; A touch of her lips it ravishes quite: She's always good natur'd, good humour'd, and free; She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me; I never am happy when out of her sight.
O Leave Novels^1
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel; Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel; They heat your brains, and fire your veins, And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. Beware a tongue that's smoothly
On A Henpecked Country Squire
As father Adam first was fool'd, (A case that's still too common,) Here lies man a woman ruled, The devil ruled the woman.