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　　Epitaph On 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. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns