To cowe the rebel generation, I canna say but they do gaylies; They lay aside a' tender mercies, And tirl the hallions to the birses; ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT for HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. [Enclosing this noble elegy to Mr. M'Murdo, the Chamberlain to the Duke of Queensberry, Burns wrote, on the 2nd of August, 1790-" Permit a rustic muse of your acquaintance to do her best to soothe you with a song. You knew Henderson-I have not flattered his memory." Matthew Henderson's name appears among the list of subscribers to the Edinburgh edition of Yet, while they're only poind't and Burns, of April 1787, he being entered as taking herriet, four copies. He was a member of a very choice circle, called the "Capillaire Club," who met at They'll keep their stubborn Highland Fortune's Tavern, in Writer's Court, Edinburgh. He died in the November of 1788, being buried on the 27th of that month.] spirit; But smash them-crash them a' to spails! And rot the dyvors i' the jails! The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; Let wark and hunger mak' them sober! But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew's course was bright; His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless, heavenly light! O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn! The ae best fellow e'er was born! Ye hills! near neibors 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! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae linn to linn! Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; The first o' flowers. At dawn, when every grassy blade What time the moon, wi' silent glower, Wail through the dreary midnight hour O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! And frae my een the drapping rains Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! At even, when beans their fragrance Thy gay, green, flowery tresses shear But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man o' worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. THE EPITAPH. STOP, passenger!-my story's brief, If thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurned 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, There moulders here a gallant heart— For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man, Here lies wha weel had won thy praiseFor Matthew was a bright man. If thou at friendship's sacred ca' Wad life itself resign, man, The sympathetic tear maun fa' For Matthew was a kin' man! If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man, This was a kinsman o' thy ainFor Matthew was a true man. 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. If ony whiggish whingin' sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man, May dool and sorrow be his lot!For Matthew was a rare man. TO MISS GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. [Writing to Thomson in July, 1794, Burns says - "I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much valued and much honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry," adding -"I wrote on the blank side of the title-page the following address to the young lady,"-the Poet thereupon enclosing a transcript of the subjoined.] HERE, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined, Accept the gift, though humble he who gives; Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast Discordant jar thy bosom - chords among! But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song! Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears, As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious Virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals. THE WHISTLE. A BALLAD. [As a fitting prefix to the ballad, Burns, in 1792, penned as follows the Prose History of the Whistle "In the train of Anne, Princess of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with her husband, James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless devotee of Bacchus. He had a curious ebony Ca' or Whistle, which, at the beginning of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow the Whistle, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories-without a single defeat-at the Courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty Courts of Germany, and challenged the Scottish Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor to the present Sir Robert, who-after three days and nights' hard contest-left the Scandinavian dead-drunk, 'And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.' Sir Walter Lawrie, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married the sister of Sir Walter. On Friday, the 16th of October, 1789, the Whistle was once more contended for-as related in the ballad-by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descendant of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field." The Poet, it should be particularly remarked, took no part whatever in the competition, even as a witness, his sole office being to perpetuate the memory of these three doughty wine-bibbers, by congealing them like toping flies in the amber of his verse. Professor Wilson, in no squeamish mood, pronounced "The Whistle,' in the eyes of Bacchus, the best of Triumphal Odes."] I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall o'er; Or else he would muster the heads of the Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran clan, And once more, in claret, try which was Bright Phoebus ne'er witnessed so joyous the man. "By the gods of the ancients!" Glen riddel replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turned his back on his foeor his friend, Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, a core, And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well worn out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turned o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 't was the way that their ancestor did. And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and he'd yield. sage, To the board of Glenriddel our heroes No longer the warfare, ungodly, would repair, wage; So noted for drowning of sorrow and A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine! He left the foul business to folks less divine. care; But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray, spleen, And wished that Parnassus a vineyard had been. the end; But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend? Though fate said—a hero should perish in light; So up rose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight. The dinner being over, the claret they | Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in ply, drink :And every new cork is a new spring of "Craigdarroch, thou 'lt soar when creajoy; tion shall sink! In the bands of old friendship and kindred But if thou would flourish immortal in And the bands grew the tighter the more Come, one bottle more-and have at the sublime! they were wet. |