NO 1 sculptured marble here, nor… “No storied urn nor animated bust;… This simple stone directs pale Sc… To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet… ADDITIONAL STANZASShe mou…

Is there, for honest poverty, That hings his head, an’ a’ that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fa… Shall ever be my muse’s care; Their titles a’ are empty show; Gie me my Highland Lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O,

Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o’ care? Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonie…

Her flowing locks, the raven’s win… Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to clin… And round that neck entwine her! Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,

AN HONEST man here lies at res… As e’er God with his image blest; The friend of man, the friend of t… The friend of age, and guide of yo… Few hearts like his, with virtue w…

My love, she’s but a lassie yet, My love, she’s but a lassie yet! We’ll let her stand a year or twa, She’ll no be half sae saucy yet! I rue the day I sought her, O!

STILL anxious to secure your par… And not less anxious, sure, this n… A Prologue, Epilogue, or some suc… 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if… So sought a poet, roosted near the…

THE KING’S most humble servant… Can scarcely spare a minute; But I’ll be wi’ you by an’ by; Or else the Deil’s be in it.

O thou! whatever title suit thee,- Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clo… Wha in yon cavern, grim an’ sootie… Clos’d under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cooti…

Why, why tell thy lover Bliss he never must enjoy? Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie? O why, while fancy, raptur’d slumb…

CURSE on ungrateful man, that ca… And yet can starve the author of t… O thou, my elder brother in misfor… By far my elder brother in the Mu… With tears I pity thy unhappy fat…

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary… And leave auld Scotia’s shore; Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary… Across th’ Atlantic roar. O sweet grows the lime and the ora…

IN se’enteen hunder’n forty-nine, The deil gat stuff to mak a swine, An’ coost it in a corner; But wilily he chang’d his plan, An’ shap’d it something like a man…

Here lies John Bushby—honest man, Cheat him, Devil—if you can!