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The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

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564<br />

'T was a lucky escape for <strong>the</strong> stone.<br />

[<strong>The</strong> following stanza, on <strong>the</strong> death <strong>of</strong> Lady Mount E---'s favorite pig<br />

Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in <strong>the</strong> annals <strong>of</strong><br />

impertinence.--P. P.]<br />

A CONSOLATORY STANZA<br />

TO LADY MOUNT E---, ON THE DEATH OF HER PIG CUPID.<br />

O dry that tear, so round and big,<br />

Nor waste in sighs your precious wind!<br />

Death only takes a single pig--<br />

Your lord and son are still behind.<br />

EPIGRAMS BY ROBERT BURNS.<br />

THE POET'S CHOICE.<br />

I murder hate, by field or flood,<br />

Though glory's name may screen us;<br />

In wars at hame I'll spend my blood,<br />

Life-giving wars <strong>of</strong> Venus.<br />

<strong>The</strong> Jeities that I adore,<br />

Are social peace and plenty;<br />

I'm better pleased to make one more,<br />

Than be <strong>the</strong> death <strong>of</strong> twenty.<br />

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.<br />

Here souter Hood in death does sleep;--<br />

To h-ll, if he's gane thi<strong>the</strong>r,<br />

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,<br />

He'll haud it weel <strong>the</strong>gi<strong>the</strong>r.

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