LINES Written under the picture of the celebrated Miss Burm. CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing, True it is, she had one failing, - EPIGRAM ON. CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE, THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. [The following Epigram, written in a moment of festivity by Burns, was so much relished by Grose, that he made it serve as an excuse for prolonging the convivial occasion that gave it birth to a very late hour.]* THE Devil got notice that GROSE was a-dying, And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, Mr Grose was exceedingly corpulent, and used to rally himself, with the greatest good humour, on the singular rotundity of his figure. EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. O THOU whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard'st thou that groan-proceed no further, 'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring murder. EPITAPH ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. LAMENT him Mauchline husbands a', For had ye staid whole weeks awa', Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass O tread ye lightly on his grass, EPITAPH ON J. -N B- -Y, WRITER IN DUMFRIES. HERE lies J-n By, honest man! EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. HERE lies Johnny Pidgeon, What was his religion, Whae'er desires to ken, To some other warl Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane. Strong ale was ablution, Small beer persecution, Was the saving his soul, EPITAPH ON WALTER S Sic a reptile was Wat, Sic a miscreant slave, That the worms ev'n dd him, When laid in his grave. In his flesh there's a famine,' A starv'd reptile cries; ‹ An' his heart is rank poison Another replies. EPITAPH ON A PERSON NICKNAMED THE MARQUIS, WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM. HERE lies a mock Marquis whose titles were shamm'd If ever he rise, it will be to be d-'d. ON PASTORAL POETRY. HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 'Mang heaps o' clavers; Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage? In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herd's ballats Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinkiin patches O' heathen tatters: I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit and lear, And rural grace ;· And wi' the far fam'd Grecian share- Yes!" there is ane; a Scottish callan ! There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's for ever. Thou paints auld nature to the nines, Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell! In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Or trots by hazzelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, |