Should the poor be flattered?-Shakespeare.

O Death! thou tyrant felland bloody!
The meikledevil wi’ a woodie
Haurlthee hameto his black smiddie,
O’er hurcheonhides,
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 cockyour 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 cushatkens!
Ye haz’ly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens,
Wi’ toddlin din,
Or foaming, strang, wi’ hasty stens,
Frae linto 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, whiddinthro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye weesongsters o’ the wood;
Ye grouse that crapthe heather bud;
Ye curlews, calling thro’ a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, we whirring paitrickbrood;
He’s ganefor 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,
Rairfor 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 thaefar warlds whalies in clay,
Whamwe deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r
In some auldtree, oreldritchtow’r,
What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r,
Setsup her horn,
Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour,

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 fraemy eenthe drapping rains
Maunever flow.

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilkcowslip cup shall kepa 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 worthwe’ve lost!

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light!
Mourn, Empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starniesbright,
My Matthew mourn!
For throughyour 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!
Butbythy honest turf I’ll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the aebest fellow’s fate
E’erlay in earth.