Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers!

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka

grove the cushat kens!

Ye hazʼlly 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 bonnilie,
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; grouse that crap the heather-bud;

Ye

Ye curlews calling thro' a clud;

Ye whistling plover;

And mourn, ye 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 claver 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 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 corry 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.

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF
SCOTS.

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

JOW Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out owre the grassy lea:

Now Phœbus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies

;

But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild, wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;