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E LE G

Y

ON

Capt. M-H

A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Ho

nours immediately from Almighty God!

But now his radiant course is run,

For Matthew's course was bright;
His foul was like the glorious fun,

A matchless Heav'nly Light!

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi’ a woodie

Haur)

Haurl thee hame to his black fmiddie,

O’er hurcheon hides,

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 37

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 fel shall mourn

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

Frae man exil'd.

Ye hills, near neebors o'the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,

Where Echo flumbers ! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,

My wailing numbers !

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye hazly shaws and briery dens !

Ye

Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,

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

Frae lin to lin.

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to fee;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,

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

The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,

l'th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade,

Come join my wail.

Mourn,

Mourn, ye wee fongsters 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 3

He's
gane

for ever!

Mourn, footy 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 fake.

Mourn, clam’ring craiks at clofe o" day, 'Mang fields o’ flow'ring clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way

Frae our cauld fhore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore.

Ye

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

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

Till waukrife morn!

0, rivers, forrests, 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,

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