For through 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, 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. THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger, my story's brief; 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, If thou at friendship's sacred ca' If thou art staunch, without a stain, For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, If onie whiggish, whingle sot, ON A SCOTCH BARD. GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 'A' YE wha live by soups o' drink, A' Our billie's gien us a' the jink, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin core, For now he's taen anither shore, The Bonie lasses weel may wiss him, For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him,. O Fortune! they hae room to grumble; Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, "Twad been nae plea: But he was gleg as onie wumble, That's owre the sea. Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, He was her laureate monie a year, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west Ill may she be! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under Fortune's cummock, So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, The Muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, He wad na wrang'd the vera Deil, Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie: But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonilie! I'll toast ye in my hind most gillie, ON PASTORAL POETRY. HAIL, Poesie! thou nymph reserved! In chase o' thee what crowds hae swerv'é, ae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 'Mid a' thy favors! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Baurbauld, survives But thee, Theocritus! wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches: Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters: I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit and lear, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace; And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan: The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's forever. |