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A last request permit me here,

When yearly ye assemble a', One round, I ask it with a tear,

To him, the Bard that's far awa'.


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O DEATH ! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

O'er hurcheon hides,
Aud like stock-fish come o'er his studdie

Wi'thy auld sides ! .
He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn

By wood and wild,
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,

Frae man exil'd.
Ye hills, near neehors o' the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ;
Ye clits, the haunts of sailing yearps,

Where echo slumbers ! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,

My wailing numbers.! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye bazly sbaws and briery dens ! Ye burnies wimplin down your glens,

Wi' toddlin din,
Or foaming, strang wi' hasty stens,

Frae lin to lin.
Mourn little harebells o'er the lee;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,

In scented bow'rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flow'rs.
At dawn, when er'ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed

I'th' rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade,

Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye grouss that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;

Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;

He's gane for ever!
Mourn, sooty coots and speckled teals,
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels

Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,

Rair for his sake. Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o’ flow'ring clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way

Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,

Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glowr,

Sets up her horn,
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour

Till waukrife morn

! O rivers, forests, bills, 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 eyer 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, Io 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 starnies bright,

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

Ne'er to return. O 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 I shall find anither,

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.

Stop, passenger! my story's brief,

And truth I shall relate, man;
I tell na common tale o' grief,

For Matthew was a great man.
If thou uncommon merit hast,

Yet spurn’d at fortune's door, mas,
A look of pity hither cast,

For Matthew was a poor man.
if thou a poble sodger art,

That passest by this grave, mang
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 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 whiggin sot,

To blame poor Matthew dare, man,
May dool and sorrow be his lot,

For Matthew was a rare man.



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 cheers the chrystal streams,

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

That fast in durance lies.
Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,

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

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

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

Wi’ care 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 rove 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;

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