« ForrigeFortsett »
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,
The roaring blast,
The worth we've lost!
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light?
My Matthew mourn!
Ne'er to return.
0, 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,
Thou man of worth !
E'er layin earth.
Stop, passenger! my story's brief,
And truth I shall relate, man; I tell nae 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 noble 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, nian ; 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 gude wine did fear, man ; This was thy billie, dam, and sire,
For Matthew was a queer man,
If ony whiggish whingin sot,
To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; May dool and sorrow be his lot,
For Matthew was a rare man.
OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
Now nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
Out o'er the grassy lea :
And glads the azure skies;
That fast in durance lies.
Now lay’rocks wake the merry ntorn,
Aloft on dewy wing ;
Makes woodland echoes ring;
Sings drowsy day to rest:
Wi' cáre nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae ;
And milk-white is the slae :
May roye their sweets amang;
Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;
As blythe lay down at e'en :
And mony a traitor there ;
And never ending care.
But as for thee, thou false woman,
My sister and my fae,
That thro’ thy soul shall gae :
Was never known to thee;
Frae woman's pitying e'e.
My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine:
That ne'er wad blink on mine!
Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!
O! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
Let winter round me rave;
Bloom on my peaceful grave.
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.
Late crippld of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest); Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail? (It soothes poor misery, harkening to her tale), And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade.
Thou, nature, partial nature, I arraigw; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground; Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th’envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. Thy minions, kings defend, controul, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug. Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.
But 0! thou bitter step-mother and hard,
Critics-appallid, I venture on the name,
His heart, by causeless wanton malice wrung: By blockhead's daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear; Foil'd, bleeding, tortur’d, the unequal strife, The hapless poet flounders on through life ;