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						421. Epitaph on a Lap-dog 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.						 
						
						
						
						
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