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, Where heroes yet unborn shall feast their eyes; And this short epitaph that speaks thy fame, Shall also there immortalize my name: "Here lies Bombastes, stout of heart and limb, Who conquered all but Fusbos-Fusbos him."

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.

Distaf.

King.

Fusbos.

Bombas.

Distaf.

King.

Fusbos.

Bombas.

FINALE.

Briny tears I'll shed;

I for joy shall cry, too;
Zounds! the King's alive!
Yes, and so am I, too!
It was better far,

Thus to check all sorrow;
But, if some folks please,

We'll die again to-morrow!

(Rising.)

(Rising.)

Robert Burns

Holy Willie's Prayer

Он, 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,
That I should get sic exaltation!
I, wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,
Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung'd me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,
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,
For here Thou hast a chosen race;
But God confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
And public shame.

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts

Wi' great and sma',

Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts
He steals awa'.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar

O' laughin' at us.
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,
Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak' it bare
Upo' their heads;

Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin'
To think how we stood groanin', shakin',
And swat wi' dread,
While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin',
And hid his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him;
Lord, visit them wha did employ him;
And pass not in Thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their pray'r;
But for Thy people's sake destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,
'An' a' the glory shall be Thine.

Amen! amen!

Tam O'Shanter

WHEN chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

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 As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 'A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October

Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on
The smith and thee gat roarin' 'fou on;