Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/139

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
87
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,Pity's flood there never rose.See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,Hands that took—but never gave.Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblestShe goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
Antistrophe.
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends)Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends?No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies;'Tis thy trusty quondam mate,Doom'd to share thy fiery fate,She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
Epode.
And are they of no more avail,Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year?In other worlds can Mammon fail,Omnipotent as he is here?O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier,While down the wretched vital part is driv'n!The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear,Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.

ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew's course was bright;His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, Heav'nly Light.
O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!The meikle devil wi' a woodieHaurl thee hame to his black smiddie,O'er hurcheon hides,And like stock-fish come o'er his studdieWi' 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 mournBy 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 earns,Where echo slumbers!Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,My wailing numbers!
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!Ye haz'lly shaws 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 bonilie,In scented bow'rs;Ye roses on your thorny tree,The first o' flow'rs.
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy bladeDroops 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.
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