ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW

HENDERSON

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle Devil wi' a woodie

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie
O'er hurcheon hides,

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie
Wi' thy auld sides!

He'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 exiled.

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! Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens!

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Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens,

Wi' toddlin' din,

Or foaming, strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea,
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flowers!

At dawn, when every grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,

At even, when beans their fragrance shed,
I' the rustling gale;

Ye maukins whiddin through the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling through a clud;
Ye whistling plover;

And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;
He's gane forever!

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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Mourn, clamoring craiks. at close o' day,
'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay;
And when you 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 thro' 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 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 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

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The roaring blast,

Wide o'er the naked world declare

The worth we 've lost.

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Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night!

And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,

My Matthew mourn!

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

O Henderson, the man! the brother!
And art thou gone, and gone forever?
And hast thou crost 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!

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.

1793.

Robert Burns.

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THOUGHTS

After a visit to the grave of Burns

Too frail to keep the lofty vow

That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed-" The Vision" tells us how-
With holly spray,

He faltered, drifted to and fro,

And passed away.

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long,

Over the grave of Burns we hung

In social grief—

Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.

But, leaving each unquiet theme

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,

And prompt to welcome every gleam

Of good and fair,

Let us beside this limpid Stream
Breathe hopeful air.

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right

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