On The Death Of A Lap-Dog, Named Echo.

A poem by Robert Burns

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.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'On The Death Of A Lap-Dog, Named Echo.' by Robert Burns

comments powered by Disqus