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ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,
A gentleman who held the patent for his honours
immediately from Almighty God!
But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright; His soul was like the glorious sun,
And matchless Heav'nly Light !
O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody !
O'er hurcheon hides,
Wi' thy auld sides !
He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
By wood and wild,
Frae man exil'd.
Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,
Where echo slumbers ! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers !
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens !
Wi' toddiin din,
Frae lin to lin.
Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee;
In scented bow'rs;
The first o' flow'rs.
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,
l' th’ rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye
grouss that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro'a clud;
Ye whistling plover ; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;
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.
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,
Sets up her horn,
Till waukrife morn!
O, rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 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,
The worth we've lost!
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light?
My Matthew mourn !
Ne'er to return.
O, Henderson! the man! the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever! And hast thou crost that unknown river,
Life's dreary bound ! Like thee, where shall I find another,
The world around !
Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great,
Thou man of worlk!
Eer layin 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 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'
Wad life itself resign, nian; Thy, sympathetic tear maun fa',
For Matthew was a kind man!
If thou art staunch 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 gude 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.
OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
Now nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
Out o'er the grassy lea :
And glads the azure skies;
That fast in durance lies.
Now lav'rocks wake the merry ntorn,
Aloft on dewy wing; 'The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring ;
Sings drowsy day to rest:
Wi' cáre nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae ;
And milk-white is the slae :
May roye their sweets amang;
Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the queen o’ bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;
As blythe lay down at e'en :
And mony a traitor there ;
And never ending care.