Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that c.r.a.p the heather bud; Ye curlews, calling thro' a clud; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, we 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 claud sh.o.r.e, Tell thae far warlds 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 glow'r, 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.

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, pa.s.senger! 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 n.o.ble sodger art, That pa.s.sest 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.

But now, his radiant course is run, For Matthew's was a bright one!

His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, Heavenly light, man.

Verses On Captain Grose

Written on an Envelope, enclosing a Letter to Him.

Ken ye aught o' Captain Grose?--Igo, and ago, If he's amang his friends or foes?--Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abra'm's bosom gane?--Igo, and ago, Or haudin Sarah by the wame?--Iram, coram dago.

Is he south or is he north?--Igo, and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth?--Iram, coram dago.

Is he slain by Hielan' bodies?--Igo, and ago, And eaten like a wether haggis?--Iram, coram, dago.

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him!--Igo, and ago, As for the deil, he daur na steer him.--Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit th' enclosed letter,--Igo, and ago, Which will oblige your humble debtor.--Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye hae auld stanes in store,--Igo, and ago, The very stanes that Adam bore.--Iram, coram, dago,

So may ye get in glad possession,--Igo, and ago, The coins o' Satan's coronation!--Iram coram dago.

Tam O' Shanter

A Tale.

"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke."

Gawin Douglas.

When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet; As market days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate, While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpa.s.ses, For honest men and bonie la.s.ses).

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, bl.u.s.tering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder wi' the Miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday, She prophesied that late or soon, Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon, Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!