[The following stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E—-'s favorite pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.—P. P.]
A CONSOLATORY STANZA TO LADY MOUNT E—-, ON THE DEATH OF HER PIG CUPID.
O dry that tear, so round and big,
Nor waste in sighs your precious wind!
Death only takes a single pig—
Your lord and son are still behind.
EPIGRAMS BY ROBERT BURNS.
THE POET'S CHOICE.
I murder hate, by field or flood,
Though glory's name may screen us;
In wars at hame I'll spend my blood,
Life-giving wars of Venus.
The Jeities that I adore,
Are social peace and plenty;
I'm better pleased to make one more,
Than be the death of twenty.
ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.
Here souter Hood in death does sleep;—
To h-ll, if he's gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
He'll haud it weel thegither.