EPITAPH
FOR
ROBERT BURNS,
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
I.
IS there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool.
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
II.
Is there a Bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly to this area throng,
O, pass not by!
But, with frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.
III.
Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave;
Here pause—and, through the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
IV.
The poor Inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And foster flame.
But thoughtless follies laid him low.
And stain'd his name!
