Poem by Robert Burns

On the Death of a Lap-dog: Named Echo

IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
  Your heavy loss deplore;
Now half-extinct your powers of song,
  Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around,
  Scream your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
  With Echo silent lies.

1. There’s News, Lasses
2. Scroggam
3. The Toast
4. Where are the Joys
5. My Wife’s a Winsome Wee Thing

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