Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r, What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour, Till waukrife morn! O rivers, forests, 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, Simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy 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 air The roaring blast, Wide o’er the naked world declare The 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 the ae best fellow’s fate E’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. If thou, at Friendship’s sacred ca’, Wad life itself resign, man: Thy sympathetic tear maun fa’, For Matthew was a kind man. If thou art staunch, without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man; This was a kinsman o’ thy ain, For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne’er guid wine did fear, man; This was thy billie, dam, and sire, For Matthew was a queer man. If ony whiggish, whingin’ sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man; May dool and sorrow be his lot, For Matthew was a rare man. But now, his radiant course is run, For Matthew’s was a bright one! His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, Heavenly light, man. Verses On Captain Grose Written on an Envelope, enclosing a Letter to Him.