Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o’ day, ’Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay; And, when ye wing your annual way Frae 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 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 Eer lay in earth. MY AIN KIND DEARIE O When o’er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow’d field Return sae dowf and wearie O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie O, If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O. Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild, And I were ne’er sae wearie O, I’d meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. The hunter lo’es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o’ gloamin grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.