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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 through your orbs he's ta’en his flight,
Ne'er to return.
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,
Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate
E’er lay in earth.
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.
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 o'er 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;
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 e'e.
My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine ;
That ne'er wad blink on mine!
Or turn their hearts to thee :
Remember him for me!
0! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Wave o’er the yellow corn!
Let winter round me rave ; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave?
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.,
LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests and one spurns the ground: Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, The' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, In all the omnipotence of rule and power.Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.
But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard! A thing unteachable in world's skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
VOL. XXXVIII. Y