Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather buả; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brod; He's gane for ever! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled tis, Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' d 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in cl Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hor, Till waukrife morn! O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! And frae my een the drapping rains Mourn Spring, thou darling of the year, Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 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! For thro' your orbs he's taen his flight, O 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 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. If thou a nobler 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' If thou art staunch, without a stain, For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, If onie whiggish, whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man; ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A' YE wha live by soups o' drink, Come mourn wi' me! Lament him, a' ye rantin' core, For now he's taen anither shore, An' owre the sea. The bonie lasses weel may wiss him, The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him O Fortune! they hae room to grumble! But he was gleg as onie wumble, Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, He was her laureate monie a year, That's owre the sea. He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock, So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, |