THROUGH and through th' inspir'd leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.
More verses by Robert Burns
- Bonie Jean: A Ballad
- Address To Beelzebub
- Epigram On Politics
- Address Spoken By Miss Fontenelle
- Song—my Wife's A Winsome Wee Thing