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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 starnjes bright,

My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,

Ne'er to return.

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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,
In a' the tinsel trash o'state!
But by thy houest luri l'll wait,

Thou man of worth !
And weep the ae best fellow's fate

E'er layin earth.

THE EPITAPH,

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.

LAMENT

OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white

Out o'er the grassy lea :
Now Phæbus chears the crystal streains,

And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.

Now lay’rocks wake the merry ntorn,

Aloft on dewy wing ;
The merle, in his noontide bow'r,

Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild, wi' many a note,

Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,

Wi' cáre nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose down the brae ;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And milk-white is the slae :
The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May roye their sweets amang;
But I, the queen of a' Scotland,

Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the queen o' bonnie France,

Where happy I hae been;
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,

As blythe lay down at e'en :
And I'm the sor’reign of Scotansi,

And mony a traitor there ;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

And never ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,

My sister and my fae,
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword

That thro’ thy soul shall gae :
The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;
Nor th“ balm that draps on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine:
And may those pleasures gild thy reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy inother's faes,

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!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave;
And the next flow'rs, that deck the spring,

Bloom on my peaceful grave.

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.

OF FINTRA.

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,
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the bard !
A thing unteachable in world's skill,
And half an ideot too, more helpless still.
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worr,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn :
No nerves olfactéry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur.
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side :
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics-appallid, I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the path of fame :
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monros ;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

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 ;

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