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DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation! mark
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonour'd years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse!


STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's face Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, Pity's flood there never rose. See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took-but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,)

Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ?
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ;
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate,
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate,
She, tardy, hell-ward plies. ·


And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glittring pounds a year ? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter mock’ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.






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 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.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,

l 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 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 houlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glowr,

Sets up her horn,
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour

Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! Oft have he 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 !

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