Curs’d be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to a tyrant wife! Who has no will but by her high permission, Who has not sixpence but in her possession; Who must to he, his dear friend’s secrets tell, Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I’d break her spirit or I’d break her heart; I’d charm her with the magic of a switch, I’d kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch. Versicles On Sign-Posts His face with smile eternal drest, Just like the Landlord’s to his Guest’s, High as they hang with creaking din, To index out the Country Inn. He looked just as your sign-post Lions do, With aspect fierce, and quite as harmless too. A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul, The very image of a barber’s Poll; It shews a human face, and wears a wig, And looks, when well preserv’d, amazing big. 1789 Robin Shure In Hairst Chorus.—Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi’ him. Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him. I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o’ plaiden, At his daddie’s yett, Wha met me but Robin: Robin shure, &c. Was na Robin bauld, Tho’ I was a cotter, Play’d me sic a trick, An’ me the El’er’s dochter! Robin shure, &c. Robin promis’d me A’ my winter vittle; Fient haet he had but three Guse-feathers and a whittle! Robin shure, &c. Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of Auchencruive Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation! mark, Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonour’d years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse? Strophe View the wither’d Beldam’s face; Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of Humanity’s sweet, melting grace? Note that eye, ’tis rheum o’erflows; Pity’s flood there never rose, See these hands ne’er stretched to save, Hands that took, but never gave: Keeper of Mammon’s iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest, She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! Antistrophe Plunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye torturing fiends;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl’d from upper skies; ’Tis thy trusty quondam Mate, Doom’d to share thy fiery fate; She, tardy, hell-ward plies. Epode And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here! O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier, While down the wretched Vital Part is driven! The cave-lodged Beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven. Pegasus At Wanlockhead