The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
262
ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON
A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD!
But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright:
His soul was like the glorious sun
A matchless, Heavenly light.
For Matthew's course was bright:
His soul was like the glorious sun
A matchless, Heavenly light.
I
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!
II
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.
III
Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns,That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
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Where Echo slumbers!
Come join ye, Nature's sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!
IV
Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!Ye hazly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens
Wi' toddlin din,
Or foaming, strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin!
V
Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea;Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see;
Ye woodbines, hanging bonilie
In scented bowers;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flowers!
VI
At dawn, when every grassy bladeDroops with a diamond at his head;
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed
I' th'rustling gale;
Ye maukins, whiddin through the glade;
Come join my wail!
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VII
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!
VIII
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!
IX
Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day,'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay!
And when you wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.
X
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bowerIn some auld tree, or eldritch tower,
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Sets up her horn,
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn!
XI
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.
XII
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, flowery tresses shear
For him that's dead!
XIII
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!
266
XIV
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 taen his flight,
Ne'er to return.
XV
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?
XVI
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
I
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.
267
II
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.
III
If thou a noble sodger art,That passest by this grave, man;
There moulders here a gallant heart,
For Matthew was a brave man.
IV
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.
V
If thou, at Friendship's sacred ca',Wad life itself resign, man;
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa',
For Matthew was a kind man.
VI
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.
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VII
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.
VIII
If onie whiggish, whingin sot,To blame poor Matthew dare, man;
May dool and sorrow be his lot!
For Matthew was a rare man.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |