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,
The world around!

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;
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 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,
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, man;
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 sin,

For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man;
This was thy billie, dam and sire,
For Matthew was a queer mán.

If onie whiggish, whingle sot,
To blame poor Matthew dare, man:
May dool and sorrow be his lot,
For Matthew was a rare man.

ON A SCOTCH BARD.

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

'A' YE wha live by soups o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
ye wha live and never think,
Come mourn wi' me!

A'

Our billie's gien us a' the jink,

An' owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rantin core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,
An' owre the sea.

The Bonie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him;
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him,.
That's owre the sea.

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,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her laureate monie a year,
That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be!

So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding;
He dealt it free:

The Muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An hap him in a cozie biel:
Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,
And fou o' glee;

He wad na wrang'd the vera Deil,
That's owre the sea.

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,
Tho' owre the see.

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
But wi' miscarriage?

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
Ev'n Sappho's flame.

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
A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan:
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel sae clever;

The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's forever.