Grim Horror girn'd, pale Terror roar'd,
As Murder at his thrapple shor'd,

And Hell mix'd in the brulyie.

As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,

Hurl down with crashing rattle;

As flames among a hundred woods,
As headlong foam from a hundred floods,
Such is the rage of Battle.

The stubborn Tories dare to die;

As soon the rooted oaks would fly

Before th' approaching fellers:

The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour

Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

And think on former daring:

The muffled murtherer of Charles

The Magna Charter flag unfurls,

All deadly gules its bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;
Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham;
Auld Covenanters shiver-

Forgive! forgive! much-wrong'd Montrose!
Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes,
Thou liv'st on high for ever.

Still o'er the field the combat burns,

The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But Fate the word has spoken:

For woman's wit and strength o' man,

Alas! can do but what they can;

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns!

My voice, a lioness that mourns

Her darling cubs' undoing!

That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James,
Dear to his country, by the names,

Friend, Patron, Benefactor!

Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save;
And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave;
And Stewart, bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow,
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe,

And Melville melt in wailing:

Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice,

And Burke shall sing, "O Prince, arise!
Thy power is all-prevailing!"

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,

A cool spectator purely!

So, when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,

And sober chirps securely.

Now, for my friends' and brethren's sakes,
And for my dear-lov'd Land o' Cakes,
I pray with holy fire:

Lord, send a rough-shod troop o' Hell
O'er a' wad Scotland buy or sell,

To grind them in the mire!

ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON

A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately from Almighty God.

Should the poor be flattered?-Shakespeare.

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!

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 cock your 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 cushat kens!
Ye haz❜ly 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 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, 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, we 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 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 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;