Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/140

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;Ye grouse 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 wheelsCircling 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 wayFrae 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 hourTill waukrife morn!
O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!Oft have ye heard my canty strains:But now, what else for me remainsBut tales of woe;And frae my een the drapping rainsMaun ever flow.
Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year!Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:Thou, simmer, while each corny spearShoots up its headThy gay, green flow'ry tresses shear,For him that's dead!
Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,In grief thy sallow mantle tear!Thou winter, hurling thro' the airThe roaring blast,Wide o'er the naked world declareThe 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 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 thee ae best fellow's fateE'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 noble 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.
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