Epitaph On A Lap-Dog
Named Echo
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.
Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway
What dost thou in that mansion fair? Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind. No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts ’ll were brave; Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, Not one of them a knave. Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, Thro’ many a far-fam’d sire! So ran the far-famed Roman way, And ended in a mire. Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway! In quiet let me live: I ask no kindness at thy hand, For thou hast none to give.
Epigram On The Laird Of Laggan
When Morine, deceas’d, to the Devil went down, ’Twas nothing would serve him but Satan’s own crown; “Thy fool’s head,” quoth Satan, “that crown shall wear never, I grant thou’rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.”