Epigram On The Said Occasion

     O Death, had’st thou but spar’d his life,
     Whom we this day lament,
     We freely wad exchanged the wife,
     And a’ been weel content.

     Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff,
     The swap we yet will do’t;
     Tak thou the carlin’s carcase aff,
     Thou’se get the saul o’boot.

Another

     One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
     When deprived of her husband she loved so well,
     In respect for the love and affection he show’d her,
     She reduc’d him to dust and she drank up the powder. 
     But Queen Netherplace, of a diff’rent complexion,
     When called on to order the fun’ral direction,
     Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence,
     Not to show her respect, but—­to save the expense!

On Tam The Chapman

     As Tam the chapman on a day,
     Wi’Death forgather’d by the way,
     Weel pleas’d, he greets a wight so famous,
     And Death was nae less pleas’d wi’ Thomas,
     Wha cheerfully lays down his pack,
     And there blaws up a hearty crack: 
     His social, friendly, honest heart
     Sae tickled Death, they could na part;
     Sae, after viewing knives and garters,
     Death taks him hame to gie him quarters.

Epitaph On John Rankine

     Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl,
     Was driving to the tither warl’
     A mixtie—­maxtie motley squad,
     And mony a guilt-bespotted lad—­
     Black gowns of each denomination,
     And thieves of every rank and station,
     From him that wears the star and garter,
     To him that wintles in a halter: 
     Ashamed himself to see the wretches,
     He mutters, glowrin at the bitches,

     “By God I’ll not be seen behint them,
     Nor ’mang the sp’ritual core present them,
     Without, at least, ae honest man,
     To grace this damn’d infernal clan!”
     By Adamhill a glance he threw,
     “Lord God!” quoth he, “I have it now;
     There’s just the man I want, i’ faith!”
     And quickly stoppit Rankine’s breath.

Lines On The Author’s Death

     Written With The Supposed View Of
     Being Handed To Rankine After The Poet’s Interment

     He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
     And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
     Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.

Man Was Made To Mourn:  A Dirge

     When chill November’s surly blast
     Made fields and forests bare,
     One ev’ning, as I wander’d forth
     Along the banks of Ayr,
     I spied a man, whose aged step
     Seem’d weary, worn with care;
     His face furrow’d o’er with years,
     And hoary was his hair.