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. 

Robert Burns