A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD! But now his radiant course is run, O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 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! 7 Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, 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 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, 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, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour O rivers, forests, hills and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains what else for me remains But now, But tales of woe? And frae my een the drapping rains 14,992 DOỄ 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, i' ({ Thou, winter, hurling thro' 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! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, O Henderson! the man! the brother! Like thee, where shall I find another, 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 THE EPITAPH. STOP, passenger! my story's brief; 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' If thou art staunch without a stain, If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man; May dool and sorrow be his lot, For Matthew was a rare man. |