He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!

Thee, Matthew, Nature's self 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 bonilie,
In scented bow'rs;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flow'rs

At dawn, when ev'ry glassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,

At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed
I' the 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 buả;
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;

Ye whistling plover;

And mourn, ye whirring paitrick br
He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled to,
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 clay
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch towr.
What time the moon, wi' silent g'r
Sets up her horn,

Wail thro' the dreary midnight heir,
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.

اشد

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