Bombas. Oh, Fusbos, Fusbos! I am diddled quite; Dark clouds come o'er my eyes-farewell, good night! Good night! my mighty soul's inclined to roam, So make my compliments to all at home. (Lies down by the KING.) Fusbos. And o'er thy grave a monument shall rise, And this short epitaph that speaks thy fame, "Here lies Bombastes, stout of heart and limb, Enter DISTAFfina. Distaf. Ah, wretched maid! Oh, miserable fate! I've just arrived in time to be too late. Fusbos. Go, beauty, go, thou source of woe to man, And get another lover where you can. Distaf. But are you sure they're dead? Fusbos. Yes, dead as herrings-herrings that are red. Robert Burns Holy Willie's Prayer Oн, Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel', Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, A' for Thy glory, And no for ony guid or ill They've done afore Thee! I bless and praise Thy matchless might, Whan thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here afore Thy sight, For gifts an' grace, 'A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place. What was I, or my generation, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, When frae my mither's womb I fell, Whare damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to a stake. Yet I am here a chosen sample, To show Thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in Thy temple, Strong as a rock, 'A guide, a buckler, an example To a' Thy flock. Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace And public shame. Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, Wi' great and sma', Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, O' laughin' at us. Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes. Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak' it bare Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin', Lord, in the day of vengeance try him; But for Thy people's sake destroy 'em, But, Lord, remember me and mine, 'An' a' the glory shall be Thine. Amen! amen! Tam O'Shanter WHEN chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses). Oh, Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise Ae market-day thou was nae sober; Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on |