But, och he gaed and ne'er return'd
Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ancles fetters!
In vain the burns came down like waters,
An acre braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin clatters,
Tam Samson's dead!

Owre many a weary hag he limpit,
An' ay the tither shot he thump it,
Till coward death behind him jumpit,
Wi' deadly feide;

Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet,
Tam Samson's dead!

When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger

Wi' weel-aim'd deed;

"L-d, five!" he cry'd, ah' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head,

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson's dead!

There low he lies, in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an' breed;

Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!

Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave, Three volleys let his mem'ry crave

O' pouther an' lead,

Till echo answer frae her cave,

Tam Samson's dead!

Heav'n rest his saul, where'er he be!
Is the wish o' monie mae than me;
He had twa faults, or may be three,
Yet what remead?

Ae social honest man want we:

Tam Samson's dead!

THE EPITАРН.

Tam Samson's weel-born clay here lies,
Ye canting zealots spare him!
If honest worth in heaven rise,
Ye'll mend or ye win near him.

PER CONTRA.

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Rillie,* Tell ev'ry social, honest billie

To cease his grievin,

For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin.

* Kilmarnock,

VOL. II.-K

ELEGY

ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOR IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD!

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;
His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless, heavenly light!

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The muckle Devil wi' a woodie

Haurl the hame to his black smiddle,
O'er hurcheon hides,

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdle
Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,

Frae man exil'd.

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,
Where Echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'lly shaws and brlery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,
Wi' toddlin din,

Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonilie,

In scented bow'rs;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev❜n, when beans their fragrance shed, I' the rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come, join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;

Ye whistling plover;

And mourn, ye whirring paitrich brood; He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, Ye fisher herons, watching eels; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels

Circling the lake;

Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,

Rair for his sake!

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay;

And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,

Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r,
Sets up her horn,

Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour,
Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains:
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe;

And frae my een the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year,
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear;
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,

Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear,
For him that's dead!

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air
The roaring blast,

Wide o'er the naked world declare

The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night!

And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,

My Matthew mourn!