BURNS was one day in a gentleman’s library. The collection was very fine; but the owner happened to be a man not the most able in the world to appreciate the contents. After some conversation with Burns, he expressed himself as being particularly anxious about the bindings of his books; he liked to see books with a handsome exterior. Next morning, the wicked poet was found to have left the following on the library table:-
Through and through th’ inspir’d leaves
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O, respect his lordship’s taste,
And spare the golden bindings.