Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glowr,
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 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,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
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!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!

And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,

My Matthew mourn!

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

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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,
In a' the tinsel trash o' state!

But by thy honest turf I'll wait,

Thou man of worth!

And weep thee ae best fellow's fate

E'er lay in earth.

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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.

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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;
The 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.

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LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.*

COW Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out-owre the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now laverocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,

Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:

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*It is said by Mr. Allan Cunningham, that the Lament' was written at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, who rewarded him with a valuable snuff-box, on the lid of which was Queen Mary's portrait. Burns acknowledged the gift in a letter to the donor, dated Ellisland, 11th January, 1791. Lady Winifred was the daughter and sole heiress of William Maxwell, commonly called Earl of Nithsdale, only son of William, fifth Earl of Nithsdale, who was attainted of high treason in 1716. She died in 1801.

In a letter to Mrs. Graham, of Fintry, the Poet says, "Whether it is that the story of our Mary, Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the enclosed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not; but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while past; on that account I enclose it particularly to you."

In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonie France,
Where happy I hae been,
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en :
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,
My sister and my fae,

Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That thro' thy soul shall gae:

The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;

Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying ee.

My son! my son

! may

kinder stars

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Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,

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