He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil❜d. Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers! 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 At ev❜n, when beans their fragrance shed, I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail. Ye Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; grouss that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; He's gane for ever! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, 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 warls, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, Sets up her horn. Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn! O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! But tales of woe; And frae my cen the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flowery 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 taen his flight, Ne'er to return. O Henderson! the man! the brother! Life's dreary bound! Like thee, where shall I find another, 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, If thou uncommon merit hast, 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, If thou at friendship's sacred ca' If thou art staunch without a stain, For Matthew was a true man. x If thou hast wit, and fun and fire, If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; For Matthew was a rare man. LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now Nature hangs her mantle green And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, But nought can glad the weary wight Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, In love and freedom they rejoice, |