The long Latin inscription mentioned by his biographers, a manifest absurdity on the tomb of a man like Burns, and whose epitaph ought to be intelligible to all his countrymen, is, I suppose, removed, for I did not observe it, and the above English inscription, of the elegance of which, however, nothing can be said, substituted.
The gates of the mausoleum itself are kept locked, and the monument again inclosed within a plain railing.
Some countrymen were just standing at the gate, with their plaids on their shoulders, making their observations as I arrived at it. I stood and listened to them.
1st Man. "Ay, there stands Robin, still holding the plow, but the worst of it is, he has got no horses to it."
2d Man. "Ay, that is childish. It is just like a boy on a Sunday, who sets himself to the plow, and fancies he is plowing when it never moves. It would have been a deal better if you could have seen even the horses' tails."
3d Man. "Ay, or if he had been sitting on his plow, as I have seen him sometimes in a picture."
1st Man. "But Coila is well drawn, is not she? That arm which she holds up the mantle with is very well executed."
2d Man. "It's a pity, though, that the sculptor did not look at his own coat before he put the only button on that is to be seen."
3d Man. "Why, where is the button?"