O THOU whom Poetry abhors,
Whom Prose has turnèd out of doors,
Heard'st thou yon groan?—proceed no further,
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther.
More verses by Robert Burns
- My Lord A-Hunting He Is Gane
- Epigram On Andrew Turner
- Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Here
- Epitaph On James Grieve
- On A Scotch Bard, Gone To The West Indies