Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 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, 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! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, O Henderson! the man! the brother! Like thee, where shall I find another, Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. THE THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger! my story's brief; I tell nae common tale o' grief, For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man; A look of pity hither cast, For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art, That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart; For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man; Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, For Matthew was a bright man. If thou at friendship's sacred ca' If thou art staunch without a stain, If thou hast wit, and fun and fire, If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man; LAMENT |