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, O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon1 hides, 3 And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie' He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel" shall mourn Frae man exil'd. Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 8 Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens," Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 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. 5 Anvil. 8 Eagles. 12 Pool to pool Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Ye maukins' whiddin' thro' the glade, Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 5 Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! But tales of woe; And frae my een the drapping rains THE EPITAPH. Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead! Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost! Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light! My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, D Henderson; the man! the brother! Like thee, where shall I find another, Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 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, 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, If thou on men, their works and ways, If thou at friendship's sacred ca' If thou art staunch without a stain, For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, If ony whiggish whingin' sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man; LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE Now Nature hangs her mantle green And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight 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, The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Now blooms the lily by the bank, I was the Queen o' bonnie France, And never-ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman, Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword The weeping blood in woman's breast Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe My son! my son! may kinder stars And may those pleasures gild thy reign, God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 1 Larks. 2 Thrush. |