A last request permit me here, •BOD! ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHew henderson, GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD! NIINN But now his radiaut course is run, O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! The meikle devil wi' a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, Aud like stock-fish come o'er his studdie He's Wi' thy auld sides! '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, Where echo slumbers! My wailing numbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Wi' toddlin din, Or foaming, strang wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin. Mourn little harebells o'er the lee; In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail. Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane for ever! Mourn, sooty coots and speckled teals, 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, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn! O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! But tales of woe? And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! 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, Ne'er to return. O Henderson the man! the brother! Like thee, where I shall find anither, The world around! Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 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; For Matthew was a poor man. That passest by this grave, man, If thou on men, their works and ways, If thou at friendship's sacred ca' For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, If ony whiggish whiggin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man, LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, Now Phoebus cheers the chrystal streams, But nought can glad the weary wight Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, The merle, in his noontide bow'r, I was the Queen o' bonnie France, |