On John Bushby.

    Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl,
    Was driving to the tither warl'
    A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
    And mony a guilt-bespotted lad;
    Black gowns of each denomination,
    And thieves of every rank and station,
    From him that wears the star and garter,
    To him that wintles in a halter:
    Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches,
    He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches,
    "By G--d, I'll not be seen behint them,
    Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
    Without, at least, ae honest man,
    To grace this d--d infernal clan."
    By Adamhill a glance he threw,
    "L--d G--d!" quoth he, "I have it now,
    There's just the man I want, i' faith!"
    And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

    An honest man here lies at rest
    As e'er God with his image blest!
    The friend of man, the friend of truth;
    The friend of age, and guide of youth;
    Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
    Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
    If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
    If there is none, he made the best of this.

    Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know,
        That death has murder'd Johnny!
    An' here his body lies fu' low
        For saul he ne'er had ony.

    Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse
    E'er bring you in by Mauchline Cross,
    L--d, man, there's lasses there wad force
        A hermit's fancy.
    And down the gate in faith they're worse
        And mair unchancy.

    But as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's,
    And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,
    Till some bit callan bring me news
        That ye are there,
    And if we dinna hae a bouze
        I'se ne'er drink mair.

    It's no I like to sit an' swallow,
    Then like a swine to puke and wallow,
    But gie me just a true good fellow,
        Wi' right ingine,
    And spunkie ance to make us mellow,
        And then we'll shine.

    Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,
    Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
    ...

    Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;
    What was his religion?
        Wha e'er desires to ken,
    To some other warl'
    Maun follow the carl,
        For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

    Strong ale was ablution,
    Small beer, persecution,
        A dram was memento mori;
    But a full flowing bowl
    Was the saving his soul,
        And port was celestial glory.

    Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
        What wad you wish for mair, man?
    Wha kens before his life may end,
        What his share may be o' care, man?
    Then catch the moments as they fly,
        And use them as ye ought, man?
    Believe me, happiness is shy,
        And comes not ay when sought, man.