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, near 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;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,

In scented bow'rs;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,

At ev❜n, when beans their fragrance shed,

I' th' rustling gale,

Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade,

Come join my wail.

Ye

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; grouss that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;

Ye whistling plover;

And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;

He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals,
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;

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, 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way

Frae our cauld shore,

Tell thae far warls, wha lies in clay,

Wham we deplore.

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 cen 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, flowery 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 taen 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,
In a' the tinsel trash o' state!

But by thy honest turf I'll wait,

Thou man of worth!

And weep the ae best fellow's fate

E'er lay in earth.

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.

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.

x

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.

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er 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 lav'rocks wake the merry morn,

Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis wild wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:

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