ANOTHER ON THE SAME. In SIMILE if I may shine agen- Thus have I seen a fond old hen With one poor miserable chick, Bustling about a farmer's yard; Now on the dunghill laboring hard, Scraping away through thin and thick, Flutt'ring her feathers--making such a noise! Cackling aloud such quantities of joys, As if this chick, to which her egg gave birth, Was born to deal prodigious knocks, To shine the Broughton of game cocks, And kill the fowls of all the earth! EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS. Poor Peter Staggs, now rests beneath this rail, Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale; For twenty years he did the duties well, Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the "Bell." But Death stepp'd in, and order'd Peter Staggs To feed his worms, and leave the farmers' nags. The church clock struck one--alas! 't was Peter's knell, Who sigh'd, "I'm coming--that's the ostler's bell!" TRAY'S EPITAPH. Here rest the relics of a friend below, Blest with more sense than half the folks I know: Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone, He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnaw'd his bone; Perform'd his functions well in ev'ry way- Blush, CHRISTIANS, if you can, and copy Tray. ON A STONE THROWN AT A VERY GREAT MAN, BUT WHICH MISSED HIM. Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head From a flint so unluckily thrown- I think very different, with thousands indeed, 'T was a lucky escape for the stone. [The following stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E---'s favorite pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.--P. P.] A CONSOLATORY STANZA TO LADY MOUNT E---, ON THE DEATH OF HER PIG CUPID. O dry that tear, so round and big, Nor waste in sighs your precious wind! Death only takes a single pig-- Your lord and son are still behind. EPIGRAMS BY ROBERT BURNS. THE POET'S CHOICE. I murder hate, by field or flood, Though glory's name may screen us; In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving wars of Venus. The Jeities that I adore, Are social peace and plenty; I'm better pleased to make one more, Than be the death of twenty. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. Here souter Hood in death does sleep;-- To h-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither. ON JOHN DOVE INNKEEPER OF MAUCHLINE. Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane! Strong ale was ablution-- Small beer, persecution, A dram was MEMENTO MORI: But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory. ON ANDREW TURNER. In se'enteen hunder an' forty-nine, Satan took stuff to mak' a swine, And cuist it in a corner; But wilily he chang'd his plan, And shaped it something like a man. And ca'd it Andrew Turner. ON A SCOTCH COXCOMB Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, His chicken heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His skull will prop it under. ON GRIZZEL GRIM.