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And mourn, ye whirring paitrick 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!

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Roar

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, landrails
'Mang fields o' flowering 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 bower,
In some auld tree or eldritch tower,
What time the moon, wi' silent glower
Sets up her horn,

Wail through 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 wo?

And frae my e'en the drapping rains

Maun ever flow.

owls

frightful

stare

lively

receive

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, flowery tresses shear
For him that's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling through 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!

For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,
Ne'er to return.

O Henderson! the man the brother!

And art thou gone, and gone for ever? And hast thou crossed that unknown river, Life's dreary bound?

Like thee, where shall I find another,

The world around?

Go to your sculptured tombs ye great,
In a' the tinsel trash o' state!

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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 EPITAPH.

Stop, passenger!-my story's brief,
And truth I shall relate, man;

I tell nae common tale o' grief -
For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast,

Yet spurned 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 heartFor 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'
Wad life itself resign, man,
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'

For Matthew was a kind man.

If thou art stanch without a stain,

Like the unchanging blue, man, This was a kinsman o' thy ain

For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man,
This was thy billie, dam, and sire-

For Matthew was a queer man.

If ony whiggish whingin' sot,

To blame poor Matthew dare, man,

May dool and sorrow be his lot!
For Matthew was a rare man.

fellow

peevish

TAM O' SHANTER.

A TALE.

"Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke."
GAWIN DOUGLAS.

According to the recital of Gilbert Burns, Tam o' Shanter originated thus: "When my father feued his little property near Alloway Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pasture in it. My father and two or three neighbours joined in an application to the town-council of Ayr, who were superiors of the adjoining land,

for liberty to rebuild it, and raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient cemetery with a wall: hence he came to consider it as his burial-place, and we learned that reverence for it people generally have for the burial-place of their ancestors. My brother was living in Ellisland, when Captain Grose, on his peregrinations through Scotland, stayed some time at Carse House in the neighbourhood, with Captain Robert Riddel of Glenriddel, a particular friend of my brother's. The antiquary and the poet were • unco pack and thick thegither.' Robert requested of Captain Grose, when he should come to Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing of Alloway Kirk, as it was the burial-place of his father, where he himself had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when they should be no longer serviceable to him; and added, by way of encouragement, that it was the scene of many a good story of witches and apparitions, of which he knew the captain was very fond. The captain agreed to the request, provided the poet would furnish a witch-story, to be printed along with it. Tam o' Shanter was produced on this occasion, and was first published in Grose's Antiquities of Scotland."

"The poem," says Mr. Lockhart, "was the work of one day."

road

WHEN chapman billies leave the street, fellows
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And gettin' fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,

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