CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON.

137

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, Heav'nly Light.

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie,'

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

O'er hurcheon1 hides,

3

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, near neebors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!"
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,'
Where echo slumbers!

8

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz❜lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens,
Wi' toddlin din,

Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,"
Frae lin to lin. 12

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;

1 The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the memory of man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics; they can be of service to their friends after they have passed that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. To Dr. Moore, (Feb. 28, 1791,) who remarked, in reply, that the chief merit of the Elegy lies in its lively pictures of country scenes and things, which none but a Scottish poet, and a close observer of Nature, could have so described.

2 Rope. • Self. Wood-pigeon.

3 Smithy. 4 Hedgehog.
7 Heaps of Stones.
10 Meandering. 11 Plunges.

5 Anvil. 8 Eagles. 12 Pool to pool

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.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;3

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 claver gay;
And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,

Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

5

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.

THE EPITAPH.

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.

D 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.

1 One.

189

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 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 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.

1 Complaining.

2 Mourning.

9 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.-R. B.

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 111

Now lav'rocks' 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:
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' bonnie 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 e'e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

1 Larks.

2 Thrush.