ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, And like stockfish came o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides! He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn, Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exiled. Ye hills, near neibours o' the starns, Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye roses on your thorny tree, At dawn, when every grassy blade Ye maukins, whiddin' through the glade, Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood He's gane for ever! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake! Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Ye houlets, frae your ivy bower, Wail through the dreary midnight hour O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe? And frae my e'en 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, flowery tresses shear Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost! Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, O Henderson! the man!-the brother! Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around? Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 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. R. Burns. THE QUARREL. (Christabel.) ALAS! they had been friends in youth; With Roland and Sir Leoline. Each spake words of high disdain To free the hollow heart from paining- The marks of that which once hath been. S. T. Coleridge. THE RECONCILIATION. (The Same.) 'NAY, by my soul!' said Leoline. 'Ho! Bracy! the bard, the charge be thine! And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. |