ELEGY

ON

CAPT. 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 hurcheon hides,

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie

Wi' thy auld sides!

He's

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!

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.

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie

In scented bow'rs;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flow'rs.

VOL. III.

X

At

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,

Ye

Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; grouse that crap the heather bud;

Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;

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 clover gay;
And when ye wing your annual way

Frae our cauld shore,

Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,

Wham we deplore.

Ye

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