ON WILLIAM NICOL.
[Nicol was a scholar, of ready and rough wit, who loved a joke and a gill.]
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.
LVI.
ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG,
NAMED ECHO.
[When visiting with Syme at Kenmore Castle, Burns wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at the request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lap dog.]
In wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;
Now half extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.
Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.