Eh Robin, is this you?
Ou aye, but I'm deid noo!

The following epitaph was composed by a village poet and wit, not
unknown to me in my youth, for a rival poet, one Syme, who had
published a volume of verses On the Times (not the newspaper).

Beneath this thistle,
Skin, bone, and gristle,
In Sexton Goudie's keepin' lies,
Of poet Syme,
Who fell to rhyme,
(O bards beware!) a sacrifice.

Ask not at all,
Where flew his saul,
When of the body death bereft her:
She, like his rhymes
Upon the Times,
Was never worth the speerin' after!

Speerin', I should mention, for the benefit of those ignorant of
Lowland Scotch, means asking or inquiring.

It is recorded in history that a certain Mr. Anderson, who filled
the dignified office of Provost of Dundee, died, as even provosts
must. It was resolved that a monument should be erected in his memory,
and that the inscription upon it should be the joint composition
of four of his surviving colleagues in the magistracy. They met to
prepare the epitaph; and after much consideration it was resolved