"I've seen sae mony changefu' years, "On earth I am a stranger grown; "I wander in the ways of men,

Alike unknowing and unknown: "Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd,

"I bear alane my lade o' care, "For silent, low, on beds of dust, "Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

"And last, (the sum of a' my griefs!)

My noble master lies in clay:

"The flow'r amang our barons bold,

"His country's pride, his country's stay:

"In weary being now I pine,

"For a' the life of life is dead,

"And hope has left my aged ken, "On forward wing for ever fled.

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! "The voice of woe and wild despair!

Awake, resound thy latest lay,

“Then sleep in silence evermair!

"And thou, my last, best, only friend,

That fillest an untimely tomb, "Accept this tribute from the bard

"Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.

"In poverty's low barren vale,

"Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; "Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,

"Nae ray of fame was to be found:

"Thou found'st me, like the morning sun
"That melts the fogs in limpid air,
"The friendless bard and rustic song,
"Became alike thy fostering care.

"O! why has worth so short a date?
"While villains ripen grey with time!
"Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
"Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime !
Why did I live to see that day?
"A day to me so full of woe?
"O! had I met the mortal shaft
"Which laid my benefactor low!

"The bridegroom may forget the bride,
"Was made his wedded wife yestreen;

"The monarch may forget the crown
"That on his head an hour has been ;

"The mother may forget the child

"That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; "But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

"And a' that thou hast done for me!"

LINES

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD OF WHITEFORD, BART. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,

To thee this votive off'ring I impart,

The tearful tribute of a broken heart.

The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd;
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd.
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,
And tread the dreary path to that dark world un-

known.

ON SEEING

A WOUNDED HARE

LIMP BY ME WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST

SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains:

No more the thickening brakes and verdant
plains

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the chearful dawn,

I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.