The Book-Worms
Through and through th’ inspir’d leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But O respect his lordship’s taste, And spare his golden bindings.
On Elphinstone’s Translation of Martial’s Epigrams
O Thou whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard’st thou yon groan?—proceed no further, ’Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther.
Song — A Bottle and Friend
There’s nane that’s blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c. Here’s a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o’ care, man? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man. Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, Lovely Burns has charms—confess: True it is, she had one failing, Had a woman ever less?