[3] Lord Merries held the office of Lord-Lieutenant of the East Riding of Yorks from 1880 until his death in 1908. [4] These are described in much detail, and copiously illustrated, in the "Proceedings of the Soc. of Antiq. of Scotland" (vol. x. 3rd series, pp. 307 _seq._). [5] This appreciation, specially written by the distinguished architect for the present biography, is given in Appendix V. [6] Lord Bute's second son (and successor as Keeper of Falkland Palace), the late Lieut.-Col. Lord Ninian Stuart, M.P., who fell gallantly in action in 1915, further enriched the Chapel Royal in 1906, by hanging on its walls some magnificent Flemish "verdure" tapestries of the seventeenth century. [7] Paisley. [8] Whithorn. [9] St. John's Lodge. [10] Called by the people the "media naranja," or half orange. [11] "He gave his heart to the consummation of his works, and by his watchful care brought them to perfection."--Ecclesiast. xxxviii. 31. [12] See Mr. F. W. H. Myers' remarkable obituary notice Appendix VI. [13] Written by Dowager Lady Bute, and translated into Latin at her request by the author of this memoir. {231} APPENDIX I (p. 2) ENGLISH PRIZE POEM (Written by Bute at Harrow School, _æt._ 15-½.) _Subject_: EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE. (The footnotes are the young author's own) When the long requiem's assuaging strain Sounds high and solemn through the holy fane, And loud and frequent in the darkened pile The organ's heavy swell is heard the while, Askest thou, pilgrim stranger, wherefore low, In prayer unceasing, mournful hundreds bow; Why choral hymns unceasingly arise, And thuribles with incense cloud the skies, While dying tapers glimmer pale and low Upon the bloodless alabaster brow That only represents the hero now? Read sculptured on a grave that royal name, So often blown abroad by noisy fame: Yes; low as other men, the caitiff tomb Has dared to shroud his splendour in its gloom! Edward, who once the Knight of England shone, Lies cold and stiff beneath this sculptured stone. The brilliant Phosphor of a brighter day Too soon in night is passed for aye away! The lordly thistle blooms in purple pride; The shamrock clusters by her sheltering side;[1] And, though from each full many a spray is riven, Unshaken yet they rise to friendly heaven. The golden lily, even in her tears, Full many a flower of vernal promise bears; {232} The pomegranate hangs fruitful on the tree; The olive waves o'er many an eastern sea; And strong beneath her eagle's sable wings The pine upon her fir-clad mountains clings; The rose alone, the fairest of them all,[2] Is doomed to see her bud of promise fall! The green genista's golden bloom is shed, Her brightest offspring numbered with the dead. O! plundered flower, O! doubly plundered bloom Whose fairest fragrance only feeds the tomb! 'Tis said that when upon a rocky shore The salt sea billows break with muffled roar,