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 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' 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,
In some aulá tree, or eldritch tow`r,
What time the moon, wi' silent g'r,
Sets up her horn,

Wail thro' the dreary midnight hor,

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 wo?

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 starries bright,
My Matthew mourn!

For thro' 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 cross'd that unknown river,
Life's dreary bound?

Like thee, where shall I find another,
The warld 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 na 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 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'
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 onie whiggish, whingin sot,

To blame poor Matthew dare, man;
May dool and sorrow be his lot,
For Matthew was a rare man.

ON A SCOTCH BARD,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

A' YE wha live by soups o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ye wha live, and never think,

Come mourn wi' me!
Our billie's gien us a' the jink,
An' owre the sea.

Lament him, a' ye rantin' core,
Wha dearly like a random splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,

An' owre the sea.

The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him:

The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea.

O Fortune! they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,
"Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as onie wumble,
That's owre the sea.

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill make her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her laureate monie a year,

That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang must'ring up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
Ill may she be!

So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a belly-fu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wan na bide in;