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The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour,
Against the Buchan Bullers.1

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

And think on former daring!

The muffled murtherer of Charles 2
The Magna-Charta flag unfurls,
All deadly gules its bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;

8

Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Grahame,* Auld Covenanters shiver;

Forgive, forgive, much-wronged Montrose ! While death and hell engulf 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 :

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1 The "Bullers of Buchan is an appellation given to a tremendous rocky recess on the Aberdeenshire coast, near Peterhead having an opening to the sea, while the top is open. The sea, constantly raging in it, gives it the appearance of a pot or boiler, and hence the name.

2 The masked executioner of Charles I.

8 John, Earl of Dundee, noted for his zeal and sufferings in the cause of the Stuarts during the time of the Commonwealth.

4 The great Marquis of Montrose.

For woman's wit, or strength of man,
Alas! can do but what they can

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my e'en were flowing burns!
My voice a lioness that mourns

Her darling cub's undoing!

That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly,
From furious Whigs pursuing!

brooks

weep

What Whig but wails the 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 Stuart bold as Hector! 1

Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow,
And Thurlow growl a curse of wo,
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 hears, and only hears the war,
A cool spectator purely;

1 Stuart of Hillside. Closeburn MS.

.

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

And sober chirps securely.

Additional verse in Closeburn MS.

Now for my friends' and brothers' sakes,
And for my native Land o' Cakes,

I pray with holy fire

Lord, send a rough-shod troop of hell
O'er all would Scotland buy or sell,
And grind them into mire!

ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

"Should the poor be flattered?". - SHAKESPEARE.

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright:

His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless, heavenly light!

Matthew Henderson appears to have been a

66

ma

about town," a kind-hearted, life-enjoying person,

whose agreeable manners perhaps often made him welcome at tables better furnished than his own. He had been one of Burns's good-fellow friends during the time he spent in Edinburgh, and he appears as a subscriber for four copies of the second edition of our bard's poems - not, however, as Captain Matthew Henderson - but as "Matthew Henderson, Esq.," the "Captain" being, we understand, a mere pet-name for the man among his friends, adopted most likely from the position he held in some convivial society. Burns speaks of the poem as 66 a tribute to the memory of a man I loved much.”

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 stockfish 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 exiled!

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

rope

smithy

hedgehog

anvil

stars

eagles

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

groves

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! wood-pigeon
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, meandering
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 bowers!

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flowers!

At dawn, when every grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at its head,

purling

leaps

waterfall

At even, when beans their fragrance shed, I' th' rustling gale,

Ye maukins whiddin' through the hares skipping

glade,

Come join my wail!

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood!
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud!
Ye curlews calling through a clud!

Ye whistling plover!

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