Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow, And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, And Melville melt in wailing: Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice, And Burke shall sing, “O Prince, arise! Thy power is all-prevailing!” For your poor friend, the Bard, afar He only hears and sees the war, A cool spectator purely! So, when the storm the forest rends, The robin in the hedge descends, And sober chirps securely. Now, for my friends’ and brethren’s sakes, And for my dear-lov’d Land o’ Cakes, I pray with holy fire: Lord, send a rough-shod troop o’ Hell O’er a’ wad Scotland buy or sell, To grind them in the mire! Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately from Almighty God. Should the poor be flattered?—Shakespeare. O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! The meikle devil wi’ a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O’er hurcheon hides, And 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 neighbours 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’ly 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 lea; 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 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 grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews, calling thro’ a clud; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, we 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 claud shore, Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore.