THE statue of the tragic young poet Robert Fergusson (1750-1774) in Edinburgh's Royal Mile wore a wreath last week as part of a celebration of three literary Roberts - Fergusson himself, Burns, and R L Stevenson.

Burns greatly admired the man he called "by far my elder brother in the muse". Here is a sample of Fergusson in vigorous satirical mode.

from TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL

Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing,

As e'er was fram'd to jow or ring,

What gar'd them sic in steeple hing

They ken themsel',

But weel wat I they couldna bring

War sounds frae hell.

What de'il are ye? that I shud ban,

You're neither kin to pat nor pan;

Nor uly pig nor master-cann

But weel may gie

Mair pleasure to the ear o' man

Than stroke o' thee.

O! war I provost o' the town,

I swear by a' the pow'rs aboon,

I'd bring ye wi a reesle down;

Nor shud you think

(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown)

Again to clink.

Wanwordy=worthless; uly pig=oil jar; master-cann=vessel to hold bleach; reesle=clatter; clour=batter.