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Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life

Dear S, the sleest, paukie thief

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Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live

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He who of Ranken sang, lies stiff and dead

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Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd

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I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor

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Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art

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I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles
Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg
Let other poets raise a fracas

My lord, I know, your noble ear

My lov'd, my honoured, much respected friend!
My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman

My bottle is my holy pool

No churchman am I for to rail and to write
Now nature hangs her mantle green
Now westlin winds and slaught❜ring guns
Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care
O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
O rough, rude, ready-witty R.
O Thou dread Pow'r who reign'st above!
O Thou Great Being, what thou art
O Thou pale orb, that silent shines
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend!
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause

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Stop, passenger! my story's brief
Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love

The gloomy night is gathering fast
The man, in life, wherever plac'd
The poor man weeps-here G-n sleeps
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough
The sun had closed the winter day
The wind blew hollow frae the hills
The wintry west extends his blast
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare
The King's most humble servant, I.
The deil cam fiddlin through the town

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The Devil got notice that grose was a-dying

The greybeard old Wisdom may boast of his treasures.

There was three kings into the east

There's nought but care on every han'
Thou whom chance may hither lead
Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st
Thou's welcome wean, mishanter fa' me
"Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle.
Upon a simmer Sunday morn
Upon that night, when fairies light
We cam na here to view your warks
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie
When biting Boreas, fell and doure
When chapman billies leave the street
When chill November's surly blast
When Guildford good our pilot stood.
While briers an' woodbines budding green

While new-ca'd key rout at the stake
While virgin spring, by Eden's flood.
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene!

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Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering