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Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta’en his flight,
Ne'er to return.
O Henderson! the man! the brother!
Life's dreary bound !
The world around !
Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great,
Thou man of worth!
E’er lay in earth.
Stop, passenger! my story's brief;
And truth I shall relate, man;
For Matthew was a great man.
If thou uncommon merit hast,
Yet spurn’d at fortune's door, man;
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, man; 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 guid 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.
LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
Out-owre the grassy lea:
And glads the azure skies;
That fast in durance lies.
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;
Makes woodland echoes ring;
Sings drowsy day to rest :
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
And milk-white is the slae:
May rove 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.
But as for thee, thou false woman,
My sister and my fae,
That thro’ thy soul shall gae:
Was never known to thee;
Frae woman's pitying ee.
My son! my son! may kinder stars 27
:T And may those pleasures gild thy reign, T
That ne'er wad blink on mine!
Remember him for me!
Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn! Nae mair to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
Let winter round me rave;
Bloom on my peaceful grave!
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.
LATE crippld of an arm, and now a leg,
Thou, Nature, partial nature, I arraign;
But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard,