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DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation, mark!
Who in widow weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoured years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,

Baited with many a deadly curse?

STROPHE.

View the wither'd beldam's face

Can thy keen inspection trace

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace?
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,

Pity's flood there never rose.

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,
Hands that took-but never gave!

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

ANTISTROPHE,

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes!

(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends),

Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies;

'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate,

She, tardy, hell-ward plies.

EPODE.

And are they of no more avail,

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year
In other worlds can Mammon fail,

Omnipotent as he is here?

?

O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier,

While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heav'n.

ELEGY

ON

CAPTAIN 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,
A matchless Heavn❜ly Light!

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 exil'd.

Ye hills, neer 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 hazly shaws and briery dens !

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 lee;

Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;

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