"I've seen sae mony changefu' years, "On earth I am a stranger grown; "I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown: "Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, "I bear alane my lade o' care, "For silent, low, on beds of dust, "Lie a' that would my sorrows share. "And last, (the sum of a' my griefs!) My noble master lies in clay: "The flow'r amang our barons bold, "His country's pride, his country's stay: "In weary being now I pine, "For a' the life of life is dead, "And hope has left my aged ken, "On forward wing for ever fled. "Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! "The voice of woe and wild despair! Awake, resound thy latest lay, “Then sleep in silence evermair! "And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, "Accept this tribute from the bard "Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. "In poverty's low barren vale, "Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; "Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, "Nae ray of fame was to be found: "Thou found'st me, like the morning sun "O! why has worth so short a date? "The bridegroom may forget the bride, "The monarch may forget the crown "The mother may forget the child "That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; "But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, "And a' that thou hast done for me!" LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD OF WHITEFORD, BART. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive off'ring I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd; known. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, No more the thickening brakes and verdant To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the chearful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. |