Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, And empty all his barrels: He's blest--if, as he brew'd, he drink-- In upright virtuous morals.

LV.

EPITAPH

ON WILLIAM NICOL.

[Nicol was a scholar, of ready and rough wit, who loved a joke and a gill.]

Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain, For few sic feasts ye've gotten; And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, For deil a bit o't's rotten.

LVI.

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG,

NAMED ECHO.

[When visiting with Syme at Kenmore Castle, Burns wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at the request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lap dog.]

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore; Now half extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around, Scream your discordant joys; Now half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies.

LVII.

ON A NOTED c.o.xCOMB.

[Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfries have contested the honour of producing the person on whom these lines were written:--c.o.xcombs are the growth of all districts.]

Light lay the earth on w.i.l.l.y's breast, His chicken-heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His skull will prop it under.

LVIII.

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF

LORD GALLOWAY.

[This, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are hasty squibs thrown amid the tumult of a contested election, and must not be taken as the fixed and deliberate sentiments of the poet, regarding an ancient and n.o.ble house.]

What dost thou in that mansion fair?-- Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind!

LIX.

ON THE SAME.

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts all were brave; Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, Not one of them a knave.

LX.

ON THE SAME.

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, So ended in a mire.

LXI.