 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
ON A LAP-DOG
I
In wood and wild, ye warbling throng,Your heavy loss deplore:
Now half extinct your powers of song—
Sweet Echo is no more.
II
Ye jarring, screeching things around,Scream your discordant joys:
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |